And Your Enemies Closer
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: The universe is made of patterns that repeat, complicated weaves, circles within circles. Like checkpoints, touchstones in our myriad paths, a crossroads. The choice is the pattern. Here, Peter Bishop is cured, never stolen. Olivia Dunham lives a life of loss, of sacrifice and courage. They meet in the middle.
1. Prologue: In Media Res

**A/N:** This is a thing that has been written since spring. It had not been posted because it's the very first part of yet another long ass fic that has been plotted out extensively (many thanks, once again, to Chichuri). I'm putting it up here now, not knowing if I'll ever finish it, but hoping that having it somewhere other than my hard drive will remind me to get back to it with a little more regularity. Also, because the show is going to end soon, and this might reduce the pain for you guys and me both. Let me know what you thought of it! :D

* * *

They bring him in for questioning. He knew they would, eventually.

They come for him soon after his capture, soon enough that they haven't had a chance to move him out of the holding cell in the Division and into more permanent quarters, somewhere in the dungeon of a supermax prison, he imagines. Their quickness is an unexpected kindness, an unplanned one, but present nonetheless. There is really no point in delaying the inevitable.

Perhaps, he thinks, they never mean to put him there. It would be far simpler, he supposes, to drive him somewhere out of the way and put a bullet in the back of his skull to give a swift end to their troubles. He's not a naturalized citizen, after all, and procuring him a cell would mean heaps of fabricated paperwork, covered in as many miles of red tape as everything he is, everything he's done. It would mean time they do not have, time that trickles down the hourglass above all their heads, turning endlessly towards the end.

It's morning when the door opens, the crisp, bright light outlining the shapes of the armed guards that flank the entrance and, of course, his escort's. He does not expect to see Lincoln Lee, but then again he doesn't know what to expect of anything anymore. Peter squints, then resumes his position against the wall, looking down at a spot on the floor riddled with hairline fissures that he's traced into maps, filled with silver thread and defined with the blood on his hands.

Lincoln – Agent Lee would be more appropriate, he supposes – has him handcuffed with his hands behind his back. Lincoln gives the order, doesn't do it himself, and glares with his bespectacled eyes from ten paces away with what might have been badly concealed contempt as the other agent shoves him out the door.

Peter can't blame the man.

He feels numb, slow. Like the world has sped up around him and left him behind to follow a cold trail on a twisting path. When had things gotten so out of hand?

The military, _his _military, teaches soldiers to analyze a situation by looking backwards at the facts. Start by the end and follow the thread to its conclusion and you might get closer to the perp. Find a motive, when you have the facts, and the guilty party will emerge like invisible ink when put to flame. It's nothing but a game, one with people as pieces and infinite stakes. In the small hours he's spent with himself inside that room he's replayed it all in every direction he knows, every word and gesture and order given, every omission, backwards and forwards and upside-down, and still the reasons escape him. It's the facts that remain, engraved in every fictional point of his supposed IQ.

He'd sworn an oath to serve and protect, and he's done nothing but render it to ashes in the name of…what, exactly? Survival? His father would be proud.

The trail of his thoughts halts as the agent yanks him to a stop, Lincoln stepping ahead to swipe his security card on the door to the interrogation aisle, the one with rooms specifically designated for maximum security suspects in the far back of the Division quarters, to the right of the situation room, right behind Broyles' raised office. He's been in here before, many times.

It's just been a long time since he was on the wrong side of the table.

"I'll take it from here, Agent," he hears Lincoln say, and the other man releases him immediately, stepping back but remaining in the background. He wonders what these men have been told about him, to keep them so alert in his presence. He doubts "aiming for the destruction of the universe" was a part of it.

The moment the heavy-set door closes after them, leaving the agent behind, he asks, "How is she?"

It's the only question he can't keep himself from asking, and what that might say of him he doesn't bother to decipher. Lincoln looks at him squarely, what warmth might have remained in his ice-blue eyes gone like ashes in the wind.

He answers, and Peter is thankful for that small kindness. "Hurt…Angry."

The man pauses, searches for something in his face that he can't find, "How did you expect her to be?"

Another question without an answer in the pool of their misfortune, he supposes. He looks away, and Lincoln pushes him into the room without preamble.

Lincoln bids him sit, his chair pushed close to the table's edge, and attaches the handcuffs to a small steel loop on the top surface, limiting his movement. Like he's got somewhere else to go this side of the rabbit hole, Peter thinks absently. Lincoln Lee leaves the room without looking back.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the door clicks open. His interrogator is here. He doesn't need to look up to know who it's going to be, the only person fit for the job, in this universe and the next:

Olivia.


	2. The Breach

**A/N: **I realize that this is basically a rewrite of the season 2 finale, except with a twist. Episodes written by Joel Wyman, Jeff Pinkner and Akiva Goldsman.

Leave me your thoughts! :D

* * *

_Fringe Division Head Quarters, Manhatan._

"This might sting a little, Captain," the nurse warns. A small woman, golden skinned, barely in her twenties. In different circumstances, the captain might even have considered her pretty. He might even have asked her out. He simply nods now, brooding, his eyes glazed over and far, far away.

It does sting, and he's thankful for the burning sensation every time the cotton swab touches his face and the shallow wounds scattered on his forearms and neck, like fire licking the driest of woods. It brings him back down to the here and now, fishes him out from that void in the back of his mind that has been filled to the brim with a crumbling world and the screams of dying children.

He had gotten lucky today. Lucky that Red had been there to force him out of the school, lucky that they'd placed the canisters on the other end of the building; lucky that he was heavy enough and big enough that the window she'd kicked him through on their way out had broken into pieces so small as to make the damage minimal. He'd take a hundred thousand scrapes and cuts like these on his skin over being ambered any day. The kicking, on the other hand, had been most definitely unnecessary – he would have jumped through on his own, but you go tell her that.

Still, getting his ass kicked – literally – through that window had probably been the thing that had saved both their lives.

The nurse finishes quickly, has him sign the report for the health insurance with a press of his thumb on her screen and sends him on his way, as far away as he can get from anything medical. Peter Bishop has always had a particular hate for hospitals. He figures having had to visit one more frequently than a patient with severe renal failure from the ages of five to nine had probably had a hand in that.

He ends up at the changing room, the sound of rushing water from the showers next door lulling him into a not-unpleasantly-catatonic state as he lies face up on the bench, legs on either side and bent at ninety degrees to keep his feet on the ground. It's as close to sleeping as he ever gets while on call, and it's approaching seventy hours since he last laid his head on a pillow. It's been a hectic week, this one.

It's crazy, being able to get used to this. Used to seeing people frozen in time in front of their eyes, to running around putting Band-Aids on the fabric of the crumbling universe in a futile attempt at prolonging their existence. Crazy, that the cost of survival is balanced out with the lives they are forced to cut short without notice. Perhaps it's just crazy, period.

Peter dreams of it often, of being too late, too slow to get out; of looking back without blinking through a filter the color of caramel death, and he sometimes wonders if it wouldn't be better to desist, to give in and go out in one final flash of something close to glory. And maybe he's thinking all of this now because he's tired. He's tired and there's blood and grime on his skin, his shirt is cut to shreds and his head pounds.

He sacrificed a number of lives today, to keep his own. Seven, if the count was right; a janitor, a teacher, and five of her students – all between the ages of ten and thirteen. It's a low count for quarantine zones, he knows, lower even if he takes into account that it was a state school they had had to amber. He can already read the headlines in tomorrow's paper, how the heroic agents of fringe division had saved (insert x number) lives during the evacuation. They will include, of course, a small mention for the fallen, an obituary of sorts, but the type size will be small and most readers will ignore it to preserve their fragile peace. No one ever wants to know who died, no one ever wants to be reminded of their fragility, their lack of control. Mortality is an ever-looming fear, the only one they can't escape.

Just the thought makes him nauseous. Peter is no hero, he's just a man doing his job. If he were anything like what the press makes of them, there'd be a shiny red "plus one" on that obituary, one with an equally red asterisk on the top right signaling the place at the bottom that would hold his name, his rank, and date of birth: Peter Bishop (1978 – 2009), Captain, Fringe Division.

No, Peter is no hero.

* * *

It's the blaring of the alarms that wakes him with a start, a sound that chills his gut and shakes his bones. Lives have ended, more than he can count, more than he remembers, to the urgent rhythm of that tune.

Peter groans, drags a hand down his face. It's a good thing they pay him so well.

He's up and changed into a clean shirt within the next forty-five seconds, courtesy of a lifetime of military training and a world crumbling at the seams. That's his tune, after all.

Someone claps him on the back on his way out, once he's pulled his arms through the worn leather of the holster holding his gun. Peter turns to see Charlie Francis walking at his side, water still dripping down the edges of his slicked-back hair from what he supposes was the remnant of warm water Red had deigned to leave for them. A lifetime of cold showers, one more thing he's not allowed to forget.

"Busy week this one, eh, kiddo?" his gruff voice asks. Charlie's a big guy. Not tall, no. He's average height, the crown of his head barely a couple of inches above Peter's own line of sight. Tan skinned, broad shouldered, barrel chested. He's one of the last from the original Fringe, those people brought over for their expertise once the FBI was dissolved, some ten years back, maybe more. He is every bit as old fashioned, and he won't let you forget it. And though he never did make it past sergeant, everyone else is always a kid, to Charlie.

"Busy was twenty four hours ago," Peter says, still blinking exhaustion away, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve the last of his mangled energy bars – the kind given to high performance athletes and the like, the kind in endless supply in the cafeteria downstairs, "I just hope this one's no less than the universe ending."

At least then I'll get some sleep, Peter thinks. Charlie just snorts. The universe has been ending for a while now, and here they are, still.

"Oh, Captain, my Captain," a singsong voice calls from behind. Peter rolls his eyes, and smiles an annoyed kind of smile, the one that's offered in resignation and defeat, an admission to the fact that whatever he says, he'll always be the first choice to be butt of their jokes (Captain, is more than his rank. It's mocking acceptance of the man he has become, a reminder that he's earned his place through effort and sweat. A reminder that this is the life he has chosen to lead). Only Charlie's worms can compare, he supposes, but that's a different story.

"What now, Dunham?" he asks as she comes to stand by his side, in front of the wall–to–wall screen Peter has always wanted to bring home for game night, Lincoln limiting his usual input in favor of offering a mock salute to her left.

Red wrinkles her nose, "You stink, Sir."

"Not my fault someone's a shower hog, honey."

"Honey?" she pretends offence with a tilt of her chin, a click of her tongue as she bounces on the balls of her feet, in permanent motion, "really?"

"How 'bout muffin, then?"

"Haven't we had this conversation before?" They have, hundreds of times. It's an old argument, a routine by now. She'll only call him Captain, a mocking tone to her voice, a teasing light to her eyes. He'll call her whatever comes to mind, and they'll go on and on until one or the other tires and gives up. It can last hours on end, interrupted by life and by work, but rarely forgotten. Their playtime, Charlie calls it.

It used to make Lincoln jealous, he remembers; though he doubts the man would ever admit it, before he understood it was just their way to connect, before he learned their rhythm enough to become a player himself. And that Liv would tease an army into surrender, if the chance presented itself.

"Captain," The technician to the far right calls, halting the next quip on his throat, "we have a class one event, Brooklyn area, sir."

"And here I thought it was gonna be a good day, today."

"Agents," Broyles booms from behind, the deep, rumbling bass settling low at the base of his spine. They turn as one, all four of them. They've been well trained.

"Sir," Lincoln responds, always the first, always the firmest.

"I want both your teams at the site. Evaluate the situation and contain it. You know what to do. Dismissed."

And just like that, they're gone.

* * *

_Brooklyn._

"And SitRep says: Class-One Molecular Dissolution, yadda yadda, severe molecular cohesion failure – nothing new there. It seems we got ourselves a big bad hole, team."

"Another one?" Lincoln's tone is filled with speculation. There have been a lot of similar events, lately, all within the edges of the city.

Peter shares his concerns, though he does not voice them. An unforeseen increase in event frequency can mean many things. He's unwilling to think of the obvious conclusion, for if they cannot contain it, if they cannot keep up with the rate of collapse, then they are all as good as dead, with no purpose left to them. And Peter needs purpose the way he needs air.

"And you were hoping for the end of the world," Liv teases, "Poor baby."

"A guy can dream…" Peter trails off as their transport comes to a stop. It's time for work.

"Okay people, I want a full sweep of this place yesterday!" Lincoln calls as he walks through the doorway, no more than two steps removed from his side, the way basic training dictates, gun drawn in case there's more than a vortex potential inside that the stats might have missed.

They've had a few like that in the past. It's never pretty.

When nothing springs to surprise them, Lincoln walks ahead to center stage, molecular degradation scanner in hand.

What he uncovers this time isn't pretty either. Peter curses under his breath.

The tear is a large one, misshapen tendrils like angry, shinning red welts; like fractured glass spanning out in the air. Air that vibrates slightly in place, makes the edges of his vision fussy, indistinct, as if he were attempting to look through the heat of the sun in the desert.

They all know what this means. Lincoln shoots him a look, more acknowledgement than question.

Peter gives a curt nod, a yes. They've got no options left. His partner taps on his earcuff once, "Sir, this is at least a level three tear. Requesting clearance to start Quarantine Protocol."

He puts the potentiator in place. It's a small apparatus, a silver glint in the wide, open space of the stage. It comes to life with a blare.

WARNING: QUARANTINE PROTOCOL. INITIATED. MASSIVE LOSS OF LIFE IN: 3. MINUTES.

"Alright, put all canisters in place, let's seal this hole nice and tight, everybody!" Lincoln commands.

"Captain, sir!" one of the soldiers calls, "There is something you should see."

* * *

"What the hell is _that_?" Predictably, it's Charlie who voices the thought in all four of their minds.

The contraption is oddly cylindrical in shape, polished aluminum in places, rusty steel panels the rest. It's composed of superimposed, flattened rings, all the same diameter and holed in the center – empty but for a blinking blue light coming from its base.

"I think," Peter says, approaching, "it might be some sort of generator…you know, like those old things refineries used to keep as backup in case the power went out, way back before we got into the clean energies treaty. Some office buildings had them too, if I remember correctly." He's seen the pictures and diagrams, if not the devices themselves.

"Sorry, never heard of 'em, boss."

"If it's a power source, it could be what's causing the breach," Lincoln suggests.

Peter nods his agreement, guessing it makes as much sense as anything else. "And," he says as the idea strikes him, "following that thought, there's a chance the universe will plug the hole on its own if we shut it down."

"Ok, so can you do it?" Liv asks, alive with that nervous energy that never seems to disperse from her shape.

Peter huffs, already crouching down to inspect it; "you do realize you're talking to me, right?"

She just rolls her eyes.

"Think you can manage it in less than three minutes?" Lincoln asks, "I really don't want to leave Wash to my sister." Washington, Peter remembers, is Lincoln's four-year-old Golden Retriever, a birthday gift and a joke. The only thing he brought over from Seattle after his transfer, close to three years ago.

"I can try," He shrugs.

He's being modest. There has never been a single electronic device that he has not been able to take apart by hand. It's as easy as breathing. He knows of circuits and diodes, transistors and wires. He speaks their language, understands. Machines are simple, uncomplicated. Machines cannot feel, and thus nothing hurts them.

"Well then, I'll go talk to the people outside; someone might have seen something," Red says. She's already retreating by the time Peter looks up to nod his response.

Through it all, the droning, mechanized voice keeps a warning in the air, of imminent failure and death.

WARNING: QUARANTINE PROTOCOL. INITIATED. MASSIVE LOSS OF LIFE IN: 2. MINUTES.

* * *

"You alright down there, Bishop?" he hears Charlie ask down from the mezzanine.

"Just thinking about that sister of yours that Lincoln keeps talking about," he forces a smile into his tone, "at this rate I might find myself in that strip club of hers to see what he's talking about."

"Forget I ever asked, you looked prettier with your mouth closed."

"And now you're just jealous of my rugged man-beauty," he retorts, carefully removing millimetric screws one by one and dropping them into the container Lincoln's been holding up.

"No, no, I do believe he has a point," Liv interjects, coming back into the opera house, "those little pouty lips of your look way better without your teeth in the way."

"Why, Agent Dunham, I always did suspect you had the hots for me, but I never thought it ran this deep," Peter smirks, raising his head from the floorboards to take a closer look at the seemingly endless mass of copper wire he's uncovered, tangled beneath the metallic panels of the generator's underside section. He misses her response, baffled.

It's been a while since Peter's seen something like this. It reminds him of junkyard hunting as a teen, when he used to open up busted LED TV screens and car radios in search of spare parts for one project or the other, always returning home – greasy and scraped here and there – to Elizabeth's fuss.

Not just old tech, this thing. Archaic is more like it.

"Oh, I can already imagine what Frank's gonna say about that," he hears Lincoln tease beside him.

"Frank," Liv defends, "is gonna say that I know that he knows I'm only with him because he can actually cook without burning my kitchen."

"When have I ever been in your kitchen?" Peter replies, moving his head into the light to make his indignation clear.

"Oh, right," she blinks, "that's usually me."

WARNING: QUARANTINE PROTOCOL. INITIATED. MASSIVE LOSS OF LIFE IN: 50. SECONDS.

"Time's running, Cap," Lincoln says.

"I know, I know," he says, finally finding the particular weld he's been looking for all this while "Just…a few…more," he yanks down hard, and it's done, "seconds."

The blinking blue light goes still. Lincoln notifies HQ on his earcuff, awaits further instruction.

Seconds pass, stretching like hours on end. Peter keeps counting down, in his mind. There's not much time left.

"We're clear!" Lincoln says then and it's like he's put breath back into his lungs, "pick up all canisters, put them back under lock!" he pushes down on the potentiator and the droning voice disappears, midsentence.

"You heard him, people," Charlie shouts, "move out, move out!"

Peter sighs in relief, lets his head fall back with a thump on the carpeted ground before rolling away and standing himself. Drops of sweat run down his back, one by one. He's liable to sleep in the tub tonight, if he ever gets home, water rations be damned.

"Good call, Stinky," Liv says with a smile, patting his chest as she moves to help Charlie finish inspecting the site.

* * *

Row upon row of seats covered in cardinal velvet spread before him as he walks between them, watching, pacing what's left of the adrenaline away from tired limbs and overtaxed nerves. Looking for anything that might tell them what the hell happened, why there, why then. Protocol dictates inspection, though reason tells him there is nothing to find. These are natural events, frays in the net that holds the world together, unpredictable, uncontrollable, their ability to lessen the damage mediocre at best in the most optimistic of scenarios. And yet…

Peter's hands shake, now that their lives do not depend on their precision.

"So, did first responders see anything?" Lincoln asks, crouching down to peak under the seats.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Liv replies from above, where she's busied herself by helping Charlie, "y'know, the blue flashes, the dogs barking, the usual."

"Hmmm…"

"What?" Peter asks.

"Dunno, it's just…something feels off," Lincoln looks back at the stage, "Would that generator thing really have enough power to open up a hole in the universe?"

"No, not remotely, barely enough to keep it open." Realization downs, in a flash, "You think someone did this." It's a statement, not a question. Peter squats.

"Well, it's a possibility I'm considering. I mean, you said it yourself, that thing is antiquated, why would anyone have one, let alone want one, unless – "

"Unless they wanted an energy source so outdated that it's outside government regulation." Peter cuts him off, his mind thriving on possibility, theory, conjecture.

"Exactly," Lincoln says, "but then, how did they open the rift? The amount of energy needed to do something like that has gotta leave an energy signature somewhere, and the readings were all within normal parameters for a level three."

"And why here of all places?" Peter stands, looks up, restless in his skin. The theatre is a work of art in itself, if a little too ostentatious for Peter's more subdued taste. Cardinal red dominates the place, covering seats and rugs and curtains, drawing the eye to the white marble of columns and statues and the walls they stand between, walls saturated with riddles of gold-leaf that weave upwards and into the crystal dome at the center of the ceiling, a modern representation of the oculus.

"Do we have a list of the people evacuated?" Peter asks.

"I think Red has it, why?"

"I'm thinking whomever did this, if someone did this, might have been hoping to get someone specific. Not everybody can afford places like this."

It was one of the things Elizabeth missed most, after the divorce. After Walter's lawyers reduced them to a single bedroom apartment and a supermarket job. Peter knows this, not because his mother told him – she would never admit to a lack of anything that Peter himself did not need – but because he'd noticed the longing in her eyes whenever she'd find a retransmission on TV. Her favorites were always German plays, tragedies all, that she could recite word for word from memory alone. Her love for theatre and poetry had always been a defining aspect of Peter's childhood.

He remembers the opera soundtrack of her laundry afternoons every weekend, when he'd find her singing along in a powerful mezzosoprano as he came back from a long day at the workshop, covered in engine grease from head to toe. It had taken him a long time to convince her to let him work half time, let him help however he could. Her pride had always been in the way. He'd come close to falsifying her signature on the parental permission he'd needed to be hired more than once, at sixteen.

"That would make sense," Lincoln nods, "politicians do love their theatre don't they?"

"Helps them practice for everyday life, I suppose."

Lincoln snorts, "Yeah. My family used to come here a lot when we lived in the city, before," he mutters, "…It was torture."

"You poor little rich kid."

"Oh, do shut up, Captain."

He laughs.

Lincoln's the son of a judge, an important one. He's led the life Peter might have had, had he been gifted with a decent human being for a father. Instead, the fates had put him up with Walter Bishop, Secretary of Defense, myopic bastard extraordinaire.

"You boys find anything down there?" Red interrupts. She leans over the balcony, Charlie supporting his weight on his elbows at her side.

"Zilch, you?" Lincoln says.

"Same. It's a dead end."

Peter sighs, "In that case, there's no point in us being here any longer. Let's move out."

"Aye, aye, Captain!"

* * *

It happens faster than a thought.

Peter catches a glimpse of gold out the corner of his eye as he moves out of the building, towards the transport that will carry them back to HQ for debrief. Peter is distracted, chemically exhausted. The golden glint barely registers, his frazzled mind attributing it to a left over from the inside of the theatre, a retarded signal in his retinas, the kind of image that might appear when turning too fast in the light.

He's not the only one who sees.

"Hey! Stop!" It's Liv shouting, moving, gun drawn as she chases what appears to be another woman down the alley.

(What Peter thought he didn't see, he realizes, was their perpetrator leaving the building through a backdoor. What Peter thought he didn't see, he realizes, was the answer to his every question.)

The sudden flurry of motion kick starts all his hard engrained instincts into action, dispels his bone deep weariness by shooting a cocktail of chemicals through his blood, tensing his muscles, accelerating his heartbeat. He runs.

"Move!" he bellows at unsuspecting civilians, "Out of the way, Fringe Division!"

He follows Lincoln as he sprints on a path running in a tangent to the one Liv and Charlie have taken, cutting through back allies, trying to intercept the suspect from the side instead of taking a chance at the possibility of being outrun and unable to help. It's a strategy born out of instinct and familiarity, the kind of procedure only performed as efficiently by the well-oiled machinery of mechanical clocks, now long gone in favor of the digital age.

It works. Well, almost.

Lincoln stops abruptly as he turns the curve, gun in hand, and Peter sees, looking ahead, that he's got both women in sight. Charlie must have fallen behind. Peter keeps running.

There's a final warning, a loud "Stop!" bellowed behind him, and then the discharge of a gun ringing in the air.

The shot hits its target, predictably off-center, and the blonde stumbles. He sees her clutch at her shoulder, sees her stagger forward with added momentum, but she does not fall. Lincoln is no marksman. He knows Liv would have aimed for her legs.

Against all expectation, the woman keeps running. Her movements are jagged, more determined than graceful, and yet she keeps on trying to put distance between them with an unswerving persistence the likes of which he's rarely been witness to.

Peter almost admires the tenacity.

* * *

Olivia runs.

It feels as if she's been running all her life. Rushing, stumbling, dragging infinite weights from one place to the next. It doesn't matter where she's going. It doesn't matter what she's running from. Olivia runs.

Her lungs heave, her legs burn. There's a fire blazing on her shoulder, where the bullet still lies, lodged between muscles and grinding on bone. It digs deeper with every step, every small movement of her now limp arm at her side. Red-hot blood runs down her ribcage, turns the gray of her shirt into midnight black under her jacket to the beat of her heart beneath the flesh of her chest. It traces scorching paths down her biceps, all the way to the tips of fingers that will not stop shaking. Fingers that make the Glock 26 strapped to the side of her hip irrelevant with their uselessness. She has no aim whatsoever when shooting left-handed.

She's not going to be able to keep this up much longer, not when the terrain is unfamiliar. Not when her only contact whatsoever, an ageing scientist who might just be the missing half of the two variable equation responsible for her every misfortune, lies in wait on the other side of Manhattan Island. If they even call it that on this side. Olivia has been to New York plenty of times, has wandered its streets more than once. But though it feels familiar in the same way the reflection in her mirror does, this is not her New York. No, this is something else, something else entirely.

They're gaining ground on her. Only two of them remain, running behind her, though not as far behind as she'd like. She feels the thumping of their steps on the pavement, hears only her own blood rushing in her ears, her lungs burning down what oxygen they find as she makes her way through the intermittent river of civilians walking to and fro.  
A nauseating feeling overwhelms her, of extreme awareness and vulnerability, her every sense in overdrive as she follows twists and turns in an effort to outrun them.

It's getting harder to breathe, and the sensation itself is unfamiliar. It's not the shortness of breath that comes with agitation, or physical exertion, much more reminiscent of altitude sickness or the moments before drowning, like there is not enough air around for her to inhale.  
It feels different, this place. And maybe it's merely psychological, a burden of the knowledge that this is not her world, not the niche in space-time continuum that she has made her own through years of hardships and struggles, but there's no denying the molecular dissonance vibrating beneath her skin, itching on the space between her shoulder blades even in flight. She's not welcome.

A green backdoor swings open, not that far ahead. A balding man bringing the trash out, it seems.

Her vision blurs around the edges, the world fades, her head pounds, her shoulder aches.

Olivia runs.

* * *

They'd split ways as they entered the building.

In retrospect, Peter thinks, it might not have been the wisest decision. The set of winding basement corridors stretches before him, walls split halfway between bottle green and the purest of whites; white that reflects the overhead lights brightly enough to make his eyes hurt, and his jaw clench.

He can't imagine a logical reason for their perp to come down here in hopes of escaping them; there is nowhere to hide. There is nothing but empty aisles and the disquieting feeling that comes with this eerie resemblance to a hospital ambience: the sterilized smell, the artificial lack of humidity in the air, the colorless surroundings.

Whomever it is that they're dealing with, sanity has long been out of the question. Only fanatics and utter lunatics (not that there's much difference) would think of using a rupture in the fabric of cosmos as the means for a statement. The former would've claimed responsibility, the latter…well, the latter is probably somewhere in this building, bleeding to death a drop at a time, and is not leaving any time soon without an armed escort.

The airshaft rumbles above him, chromed panels and laser - cut rents shuddering as it settles into a low whirring that vibrates in his chest as he trots ahead, scanning the place as he goes. There is no other sound but the echo of his footfalls against the rough concrete floor, the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs, the continuous rush of pressurized blood in his ears. The silence unsettles him.

There is a stain on the wall. It catches his eye as he turns a corner to his right. Peter slows his pace; he has no intention of going back to Fringe Medical today, and he'd made note of the gun strapped to the woman's hip as she ran. He may not be the most cautious man out there, and he has a certain dislike and healthy disregard for rules as a whole, but he's never exhibited a lack in the 'survival instincts' department. He's very much alive, and would be content to remain so.

Further ahead the smudge becomes a trail of bloody fingerprints on stark white walls, and Peter wonders how in hell this woman is still standing with the amount of blood that's been misplaced.

Peter follows.

* * *

_There is only so much blood the human body can lose before ceasing to function, dear_, an approximation of Walter's voice says in the back of her mind, the utterance accompanied by the white flashes that cover the margins of her vision intermittently as she continues to run – jog would be more appropriate a word, now – down the twisting corridors of whereversheis.

Instinct has carried her here; logic has kept her on track. Trying to run across the main floor of what appeared to be some sort of factory would have been ludicrous, if not completely suicidal. Going up the stairs would have slowed her down, made her easy to catch, easier still to shoot down. She's not too keen on the idea of jumping off a roof into the East River either. Olivia's not so sure heading for the basement level will end up being any better, but there's nothing to do for that now.

Having worked closely with Walter Bishop for the past year has given Olivia a degree of experience with psychedelics that she never bargained for. She's reminded of this now because strangely enough, bleeding out feels much closer to a Ketamine-Neurontin-LSD high than she would've thought. Plus the pain, which is constant and merciless and might easily be the only thing keeping her on her feet.

She's been dosed once or twice (the second time would've killed her, had it not been for Astrid's unprecedented speed with a syringe), though she barely remembers anything besides the emotional chaos, and the lead she'd gone under to obtain. She remembers ghostly pallor, greasy dark hair, thin lips on a cruel mouth. A cellphone beeping. An explosion. She remembers panic and despair and having no time, no time at all. She remembers John. John, and all the things she's lost, things she can't let herself dwell upon.

This is her life now, an endless race against tireless opponents, down empty corridors in infinite mazes. Looking for answers to questions she doesn't know, questions she's never asked. A nightmare that spirals on and on and lies waiting in the shadows of the bleak landscape that comprises the backdrop of her mind (she can't wake up).

Olivia stumbles over her own feet. She braces herself against the wall, the one hand she can still rely on dragging behind her as she pushes on ahead. She's dimly aware, on some level, that she's going to have to find a way to stanch the regular flow of blood down her arm if she hopes to live long enough to escape her persecutors. If she hopes to live long enough to do what she came for.  
A dizzy mockery of a smile graces her face, pale and washed out like the rest of her, stained with the bitterness of memory, and the deaths on her hands. To have thought, not hours ago, that getting here would be the most difficult part.

She's failed.

The thought is but a flash, a momentary spark in the darkness, in those few seconds of consciousness before all else fails. It is but a flash, but it engulfs a lifetime. She's failed, and she has not even started. At least no one will miss her; that is her only consolation. Perhaps Rachel would have, in another life. Ella will, for a while, until all memories of childhood fade (if the universe holds long enough).

Olivia feels the world drop beneath her feet, her vision tilts, blurs, disappears.

She feels nothing more.

* * *

Peter watches her body plummet to the ground. He hears the heavy thump as her shape connects with the hard concrete beneath his feet, the dry smack of her skull against the uneven surface ringing in the silence, echoing until he feels it all the way up from his toes to the base of his spine, like thunderstorms in early spring or an especially powerful bass.  
It's not all at once. She falls to her knees first, her legs giving beneath her, like someone's hamstrung her when he wasn't looking, and she seems for a moment at peace (she could've passed for being deep in meditation, in the middle of a factory basement, had he not known better than that). Her body sags sideways then, her shoulder and cranium hitting hard against unpolished cement, and all illusion of something other than death fades.

"I need Med Evac at my location, NOW," he barks into his cuff. Whoever she is, whatever she's done, she's no use to them as a corpse. Peter wants answers, and he'll make damned sure to get them.

He holsters his gun and rapidly approaches, squinting against the harsh lighting as he crouches to inspect the now immobile body before him, praying for her to breathe still.

Peter is not prepared for what he sees next.

_"…Liv?"_


	3. Misplaced

**A/N:** 'K, so here's chapter three. I hope you guys enjoy it, and remember to let me know what you thought!

* * *

_Department of Defense, Liberty Island._

"I'm afraid there are many things that have been kept from you, Agents."

Walter Bishop makes a striking figure against the backdrop of the New York City skyline, with his perfectly combed silver hair and impeccable Italian suit, his very presence speaking of power. He has always carried himself regally, forever a king on a scientist's throne.

Peter snorts. He says, "Why does that not surprise me," _sotto voce_, and is met only with Liv's frown and Lincoln's badly disguised smile. It's never been a secret between them, Peter's dislike for the man who has not been his family in any way but blood for a long time. The Secretary ignores him, of course.

"How so, sir?" Lincoln asks.

"I assume, Agent Lee, that you all remember my book, _Z.F.T._?"

"Of course, sir." It's Liv who answers.

"You remember the premise then, I presume."

"You claimed that the degradation of our universe is our own fault, that the first tears in cosmic fabric happened as a result of our meddling with the order of natural events, and that those tears set in motion a chain reaction of similar incidents that we will continue to experience until we find a way to stop them in their entirety or - " Lincoln pauses, swallows, "or they become too much for us to contain."

"Very good, Agent." The Secretary nods his approval, looking thoughtfully at the book in his hands. Peter must have missed him grabbing it from the shelf at his side. He doesn't miss the rueful twist of his mouth, or the clenching of his jaw, the stiffening of his fingers as his back straightens.

"It's all a lie, isn't it?" He asks, a mirthless laugh caught in his throat. Peter's very good at calling a bluff, especially from a face he knows as well as his own.

"Yes, it's a lie, son."

Peter flinches. He'll tell himself, later, that it had nothing to do with being called 'son'. His teammates stare ahead, unblinking. In shock, if he were to hazard a guess. Peter can't say he's surprised, doubts he'll ever be surprised again, after holding an unconscious copy of Olivia Dunham earlier in the day as she bled out (he can still feel the blood on his hands, though he washed it away as soon as was possible, scrubbing up to his elbows for thoroughness' sake). And he's most certainly not surprised at being informed that his father is a professional liar—he's known that for decades now.

"I would call it more a half-truth, to be accurate, seeing as the only part that is, strictly speaking, a lie, is that these events are natural in any way."

"Sir, are you suggesting that we have been dealing with terrorist organizations all along?" It's Liv asking the question.

"After a fashion, I suppose you have, Agent Dunham. What would you say if I told you that those tears you have been sealing away are more than just holes in the fabric of the universe?"

"What else could they be, sir?" Liv again. He briefly notes the distress in her tone. She's never liked being left out.

"Doors," Peter says, breathless under the weight of his own implications. It's a half-formed thought, a nascent idea. "All this time, we've been shutting doors."

"Doors _where_?" Liv asks, bewildered.

"Another one," Lincoln says, picking up on the direction his thoughts have taken. They've always worked well together. "Another universe," he clarifies, and Peter knows it's more for Liv's benefit than anything else.

Red simply stares, gaze shifting between the two of them, and he can feel the thoughts behind that stare like living, breathing things, judging silently, asking:_ how the hell did you two come up with that? _

Walter Bishop, Secretary of Defense, claps. There is a smile on his face. It's a regular smile, to the untrained eye. To Peter, it's more menacing than amicable, stiff and uncomfortable—Walter never did like to lose, and knowledge is power. The twelve-year-old stuck in the back of his skull can't help but give a gleeful reminder: chimpanzees too, smile to threaten. He's pretty sure he read that somewhere. He purses his lips and focuses on looking suitably grim.

"Impressive. It is no wonder Philip holds this team in such high regard. I'll have to commend him on his choice."

"So it's true, then?" She conveniently forgets to tack on _'sir'_ at the end. It's the thing with Liv—you earn respect; titles matter little. And she hates being lied to.

"Indeed, Agent Dunham, your colleagues are right. Please, sit down."

* * *

Green eyes blink open, bloodshot, frenzied.

The monitors beep in a furious staccato, increasing, increasing. The woman on the bed sits up, blonde hair framing her face, deathly pale. Hospital white floods her vision. She notices the handcuffs, tugs at them but they won't give. She tugs harder. Looks around without seeing, breathes much too fast. Needs to get out, get away. The monitors flash red, green, red-red-red-green, urgent. She hears steps, voices, coming close, closer. Glass breaking, a horn blaring, shouting, somewhere, not there. The rustle of cloth on cloth, cloth on skin, skin on skin. Dust settling on the window sill. Classical—_Figaro_, maybe. Disjointed, all at once. Loud.

Hands push her down. She protests, kicks and screams. She pleads _let me go; _she thinks_ no, please no,_ or _you don't understand_, maybe both. A sting on the crook of her arm, cold needle.

A familiar face, weathered, black hair slicked back, gelled. Black eyes, kind. The same, yet not. A scar. She says: "Charlie. Charlie. Please." She stops straining, her body goes slack.

Green eyes close, drowsy, pupils blown wide.

* * *

Charlie Francis leans back into the worn red-tinted leather of the booth, rubbing at his eyes with a fist. "You're not kidding are you?"

Lincoln rolls the bottom edge of his beer against the table. "Nope."

"Parallel universes. Shit. Well, at least it makes sense."

"Agent Francis, I never thought I'd see the day." Lincoln takes a heavy swallow, smiles, surprised. His voice is almost drowned by the cheering of the patrons sitting around the big screen at the end of the bar. He suspects a goal on the ice but resists looking back, doesn't want to see the Metropolitans loose one more time.

"Not talking about your precious science, Lee." Charlie downs his shot, grimacing. "It explains how she knows me."

"She, who?"

"The… woman we caught. She _knew_ me, Lincoln. She grabbed my jacket and said _'Charlie, please_'."

A waitress approaches, young, pretty; college student maybe. Lincoln smiles, dazzling, and points at their drinks. There's no point in trying to shout above the noise, and they'll need a refill soon. When she nods and turns back towards the bar, he frowns.

"So you're saying," Lincoln says, "because she's Liv's doppelgänger, she must know _your_ doppelgänger? I'm pretty sure there's a couple holes in your logic there."

Charlie shrugs. "I dunno, it's possible. I mean, do you have any other explanation?"

"Mind reading?" He looks much more excited than the prospect should imply.

"I get the feeling you mean that."

"Well, _parallel universes_, man."

"Yeah, pretty much. What'd Liv say? And where's Captain?"

"Captain's off to sleep and possibly shower, not necessarily in that order. Liv's at the docking station, Frank came back early from Texas." Lincoln shifts in his seat. He's uncomfortable, and it has nothing to do with the thought of Frank being back.

"What are you not telling me?" Charlie asks. He's tired, they all are, but omitting information has never been Lincoln's style. He scratches at the most recent scab on the crook of his left arm, superficial, circular. The only thing keeping him from being eaten from the inside out.

"Nothing, it's just…you didn't see her face. She looked…not spooked, but hell, it was pretty damn close."

"I doubt you'd look your usual smug self if you'd seen your evil twin from another universe, Lee, cut her some slack."

"I suppose. We could bet on that, but I'm not sure we'd ever get it settled."

"I'd win anyway." Lincoln rolls his eyes. Charlie says, "Hey, it's Liv, she's gonna be fine."

Lincoln raises a glass to that.

* * *

"Thanks for the ride, Higgins." Peter shuts the cab's door, steps on the sidewalk, sleep-drunk. It's a good thing Red insisted on keeping his car keys.

"Anytime, bro, anytime. Gotta look out for my friends. Hey, you should come over to Mike's next week, get a beer with the boys, we're havin' a barbecue out back. " He hasn't been to Mike's in years, doesn't think of ever going back.

"Nah, you know I don't do that anymore, man. Neither should you for that matter." Henry used to be his runner of choice, once upon a time.

"Oh, I ain't, Bishop, believe me. I'm clean as can be, just keeping things friendly with the old group is all."

"Good, 'cause I'm not playing dumb next time you get busted. Say hi to Jasmine for me."

"Will do," Henry says, mock salutes and drives off.

It's drizzling out. He's cold, shivering. Hungry. Peter runs a hand through his hair, climbs up the steps and into the building. He's wired, wide awake and shaky, bone-tired. He lets himself in, closes the door and throws his coat on the rack, his keys on the table, places his cuff on its base and pushes the red voicemail pop-up on the screen. As he unlaces his boots, he listens.

His mother speaks first. 'Peter, darling, you still haven't called. Is something the matter? I hope work is going well.' Rufus barks in the background. The message comes to a stop, short and to the point, and Peter curses under his breath. He'd promised to call back a week ago, when he'd been preempted from visiting by work for the third time in as many months. He tries to see her often, if only for lunch on the weekends, knows she gets lonely without him.

The recording goes on. Advertising, mostly; junk he shouldn't even bother to listen to. He drops his belt on the couch, makes his way to the kitchen, turning on the lights as he goes. The floorboards are cold beneath his bare feet, socks long discarded.

Peter opens the fridge, finds it halfway to empty and thinks, this will not do. Grabs a beer, pops it open, takes a swallow.

Another message comes on. "Hey, uh, this is Jenna, from O'Malley's? Marty gave me your number. You left without saying anything the other day, and I thought we could catch up, spend some time together. Call me!" A beep signals the recording's end. Peter sighs, presses the cool bottle to the side of his face, scratches at the three-day-old stubble on his jaw. He is going to kill the bartender.

Early on, he learned that routine is a plus. Going through the motions clears his head, makes the flurry of disparate thoughts that are always there fall into place even as they shift and change, weaving, orbiting around each other in his own little network of interlocked chaos. Like toppling dominos to see their pattern, all it takes is the right push, and patience.

Man was made with a death wish at heart, a propensity for violence and bloodshed. War is inevitable, just a matter of time, that he understands. This, however, this is not a war, but madness.

What drives someone to end worlds? Is it anger, some misguided faith? More importantly, would the damage ever stop? The multiverse, a theory now proven truth, is a chain reaction after all, of choices made long ago, and maybe this universe is just a fragment of an ever-expanding whole, a micron in space-time so insignificant that its destruction wouldn't make a difference, but if that's a possibility then it is logical to assume that the contrary might also be true. That shredding the cosmic walls preventing one universe from disintegrating under natural forces could create a vacuum, a black hole of sorts, where every other universe tangential to its curvature would be dragged down into oblivion. He wonders if they thought of that. If she thought of that. Not that he'd be around to care either way.

As he leans his forehead on the cool tiled wall of the shower, scalding rush of water running down his back, he can't get the image out of his mind, of her body collapsing, her eyes rolling back, limbs going slack. He'd reacted on instinct, holstering his gun as he moved, dropping to his knees without hesitation because the sight was unbearable: Liv, so full of life, dying there a heartbeat at a time, angry red blood painting the ground at his feet. And he knows now, that she's not the woman he thought her to be before adrenaline gave way to reason, that she _couldn't_ be because he'd seen Liv running beside him as he entered the building, red hair flying behind like a standard heralding her arrival, stare focused and sharp as a knife, daring, exhilarated by the chase, breathless.

Peter knows that now, but he didn't then, too focused on keeping his hands firmly pressed against her shoulder, her chest, because in that split second after her face registered she wasn't a suspect, she wasn't a terrorist, she was a dying friend. He's already lost too many of them.

It's shaken him, to be so easily confused. She'd felt familiar, somehow, beyond her appearance. Like he'd held her hand before. A ridiculous thought, he knows. It doesn't stop him from thinking it. Mostly, he wants to know _why._

The weariness settles, like he's flipped a switch. He feels it in the pressure behind his eyeballs as he dries himself, in the flaring aches in muscles long denied their rest. He lacks coherence but his thoughts won't slow, won't let him sleep. It's not the first time.

A look in the mirror tells him more. It shows a haggard face, bruises under his eyes, heavy eyelids, wrinkles that weren't there five years ago, scattered stubble so out of control he resembles a castaway more and more. The notion of shaving is briefly entertained, but his hands shake and Peter realizes it would be little more than a suicide attempt. It'll wait. Or the world will end during the night and it just won't matter. He very briefly hopes for the latter (all this fruitless anticipation is killing him).

The pill bottle rattles as he opens it. He's not a fan of drugging himself to sleep any more than he is of drugging himself to stay awake during seventy-two-hour shifts, it's bound to come around to bite him in the ass if he ever gets past forty, but it's become a professional hazard. If he doesn't sleep he can't do his job, and if he doesn't do his job…well. He stares at the little round disc in the palm of his hand, pale blue and seemingly harmless. Sighs. He's had far worse than Valium anyhow. He gulps it down with the water pouring down the faucet and it's an interesting mix, the bitter taste of recycled water—and really, there's no telling where that water might have been. He could as well be swallowing someone else's chlorine treated piss—against the chemical sweetness of diazepam pills.

* * *

"So. All we've done is talk about how awful Texas is, which, really, we'd already agreed on." Frank hugs her from behind as she pours his drink, chinese take out steaming beside her on the table top. "How was work?"

Liv sets the bottle of shiraz down, turns around in his arms. She makes herself smile. "Weird. Tiresome. Classified." _Revealing_.

He understands, does a great job masking disappointment. "Ah, same old, same old."

"Yep." She bites her lip, switching her weight from foot to foot as she throws her arms around his neck. She thinks: you have no idea. The smile doesn't falter.

"Heard Fringe Division had to amber a state school yesterday, the report was all over the news. Was that you?"

"Mhm. Early this morning actually, _very_ early. Had to kick Peter out the window, jumped right behind him."

Frank pushes her hair away from her neck, onto her shoulder, cradling her nape. "But you're sure you're ok?"

"I may have pulled something. In my back." She waggles her her eyebrows at him, makes him chuckle.

"I'll give you a back rub later, if you want."

"Yes, please." She hums in contentment. She likes this, the air of domesticity, the uncomplicated, no-questions-asked rhythm they got going on from the very beginning. It's easy. Frank is charming in a standard-issue, quiet, strong-but-gentle sort of way. Liv's not exactly an every-man's gun, and she's not gentle either. She finds they mesh, fit together well, that perhaps there's some truth to the old rule of opposites attracting. "Tell me there's hot water left?"

"There's hot water left."

"Didn't your mother teach you manners as a kid?"

"There's hot water left, _ma'am_."

She slaps his chest, smiles. "I'm being serious here."

"Olivia Dunham, serious? In what universe is that?"

Liv swallows, looks away for a fraction of a second, hopes he doesn't notice the anxious twist to her widening smile. She shrugs. "Somewhere boring, probably."

_I'm about to find out._

* * *

The second time Olivia Dunham wakes in a strange place in a universe not her own is entirely at odds with the first. There is a distinct lack of beeping, for one, and the cell —she can tell it's a cell just by the wall at her back and the length of her cot—is pitch black. The incessant banging in her eardrums is gone and she can hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing, her heart beating. She's been forced into a jump suit while she was unconscious, thick, stiff cloth scratchy against the crease of her elbows, the bend of her knees.

The air is dry, clean, and it's a strange thing to notice but Olivia's been on the inside of prisons before in capacities other than these (always the captor), and though she's seen far stranger things since, she doesn't remember it being this way. Prison air is heavy, oppressing, dense with the acrid smell of old sweat that settles at the back of the throat, vibrating with misery and violence, that speaks of wasted years and failed humanity. No, it's not a prison cell. More an observation room if she had to guess.

Olivia spent her childhood under a scientist's thumb, and some things they didn't erase quite as well as the rest. The brain might be plastic, as malleable as melting glass, but some things stay, indelible. There is always a trace, a clue pointing to some direction in space, be it a number, a date, even words themselves. She knows the feeling, of being watched day and night without respite. She can feel the crosshairs on her back like a white-hot brand.

There's a migraine forming, marginally held back by the lack of light, of the kind Olivia has only briefly and very recently experienced. It usually means drugs of the basement-engineered, illegal kind, but she guesses it could also be attributed to equine sedatives and the like. It's a rough trip either way.

She rubs at the ache on the back of her neck with steady hands. The bullet wound that took her down is now a little scar, not even puckered, smooth and smarting slightly under her probing touch. More medically advanced: check. She's not afraid of the dark. She's not afraid of anything really. It's her greatest failure so far.

But that's wrong, she supposes. It's not that she fears nothing. Walter would say that to be entirely unafraid is improbable (she's learned _impossible_ is largely a waste of dictionary space), that it's more likely she's channelled that fear into something else, that she lacks the right stimuli. He's said it before, with a tremor in his voice, a nervous tick making his left hand flutter on its own with the help of his somewhat degraded neural responses. Olivia's never had it in her to absolve him of the guilt, recognizes, even, that part of her wants him to feel it — a vicious, hurtful, bloodied part at that. The truth, without embellishment, is this: Olivia's angry. She's been angry for a good long while.

It's easy to forget Walter is human as well, with his boundless knowledge and a disposition that's larger than life. They don't have the greatest rapport: he is broken and helpless, and then arrogant, irascible and cold by turns. Despite it, perhaps even because of it, pain and guilt are two things Olivia's long been intimate with. She understands. It brings them closer, at times.

It's not that she fears nothing, it's that she's _terrified_ of a great many things. The end of the world and not being able to stop it, just to start with. She's supposed to be made for that, to prevent this war, and failing that, to fight until she no longer can. Walter's right in any case, just as he always is: simple fear isn't enough. Not anymore.

The problem remains—without Bell, without maybe an overdose and a panic attack, she's more that just stuck here in Wonderland. Her being captive is a potential disaster waiting to happen, a weapon delivered to parties unknown, their intentions a mystery.

How long has she been here? In the darkness, time matters little.

* * *

Peter comes into the room gulping down his third cup of tea in the last hour, because he's a reluctant addict afraid of falling over his own feet, and if public service has taught him one thing it's _when in doubt, add caffeine_. He mutters a half-hearted greeting and kicks the door shut with an audible click. He doesn't really look any better, with a marginal eight hours sleep, but at least he smells (and feels) clean.

Red, perched on the table, legs swaying gently like branches of trees newly planted in an early autumn breeze, turns to watch him with a raised eyebrow, surprised. "What are you doing here?" she asks, abrasive.

"Nice to see you too, Sweetcakes," he retorts with all the cheap, sticky charm he can muster.

She groans. "Is there any way to fake an IQ test? Say yes," she says, looking at Lincoln, who's propped up at her side with the table's edge digging a canal across his ass, ankles crossed.

"Yeah, why not." Lincoln shrugs, returning the greeting with a two-finger salute. "Would probably take a genius though."

The answering eye-roll is equal parts exasperated and fond. "At least you got a loyal boyfriend, Cap."

"I pay him," Peter says.

"So that's your secret," she replies dryly. "Good to know."

"Why, you wanna borrow him?"

"Hmm, maybe. He _is_ unbearably pretty."

"I take credit cards and pre-authorized cheques only," Lincoln says, grinning.

"He lies," Peter says with a straight face, "there's a red g-string full of green filthy bills in his sock drawer."

"You keep talkin' Bishop, and I'm never giving you a discount again."

"Oh, I'm so glad Broyles insisted on taping this," Liv says with a smirk. "I can already see it: "Fringe Agents: Uncensored. The true face of the world's best."

Lincoln makes a choking noise and Peter coughs, looks at her, sees her staring at the small red, blinking dot in the corner by the mirror, pursing her lips as she tries no to laugh. "I hate you," he mouths.

"So, wait. What _are_ you doing here? I thought it was your day off," Lincoln interjects when he's composed himself, before Liv stops laughing long enough to form the words to accompany the wicked twist of her lips.

"Yeah, so did I." Peter shrugs. "Broyles called, said he wanted my eyes on this." He slumps down on the hard metal chair with as much grace as he can manage. "So. How's it going?"

"Uh, it isn't, yet. Charlie just got in." Liv answers, snapping back to business, motioning for them to look at the scene playing out on the other side of the one-way mirror.

"And, for the record, I'm way classier than that," Lincoln deadpans. "It's black."

* * *

_Suspect: Dunham, Olivia (b)_

_Interview 1_

"Listen, Olivia—Is it alright if I call you Olivia?" Charlie Francis says, voice calm, almost kind, waiting for her acquiescence before continuing, "We know where you're from, so why don't you make this easier for yourself and let us know why you're here?"

As far as interrogation openers go, it's pretty mild. Except this is Charlie sitting right across from her (a different Charlie, granted, one who carries himself like he's a soldier on tour instead of an ex-cop out of Brooklyn P.D. Who has a scar on his face, and looks at her with a mix of curiosity and apprehension instead of recognition) and Olivia has seen him do this half a hundred times, has seen him crack suspects with a whisper and the right stance.

She debates with herself. The Charlie she knows is solid, dependable and loyal to boot; he would never intentionally harm her, would never betray her, is one of the few people who doesn't look at her like she suddenly grew a second head after John's death. That Charlie isn't this one, however, and that means that she has no way of knowing what to expect. She still expects him to be steadfast, it's a part of the man, but allowing for variation means she doesn't know where his allegiances lie. And if he considers her a threat he'll do everything he can to make sure that she never sets foot out of a cell again. It's what she'd do in his place. With silence, at least, it's hard to err.

"Look, let me put this another way," Charlie says, leaning back, "as of yesterday afternoon, you are a prisoner of war. Now, this is not a threat, I'm simply stating the facts so that we understand each other, alright? Here's the thing: the way I see it, you don't exactly exist on this side, which means that you have neither records nor citizenship. To sum all of that up, you, Olivia, have no rights. You being treated like a common criminal is a courtesy we're extending you right now, so any collaboration on your part would benefit all of us. It's your choice."

Olivia sighs. "To be honest with you, I'm not sure you'd understand. All I know, is this: I am _not_ your enemy. _My side_ is not your enemy," she tries, bringing up her cuffed hands to rub at the hollow of her throat under the scratchy collar of the jumpsuit, missing a familiar weight there. They took her mother's chain from her.

"Well, that's a little hard to swallow, you're right," he says, aiming for a friendlier tone now that he's gotten her to talk, classic Charlie. "The way you got here doesn't really back that claim, the way you reacted? If you're not the enemy, why run?"

"Because you'd never believe me. You still don't."

"And you can tell that why?"

Olivia manages a smile. It's a little bitter, a little sad. "Because I know I wouldn't believe me either."

A suspect is always a mark, an interrogation an exercise in manipulation aimed at one particular outcome: confession. Every person brought into the box is a possible perpetrator, their innocence put in question from the moment their name crops up. There's no such thing as an honest question.

Charlie seems to consider it. "You said I wouldn't understand, but you won't even let me try before making that call. That's not very fair. I'll ask you one more time: why are you here, Olivia?"

"Okay, have it your way," Olivia says, takes a breath. Exhales. "I'm looking for the leader of a terrorist cell responsible for multiple biological attacks, who crossed over from my universe to this one six months ago. His name is David Robert Jones, and if I don't find him there's no telling what kind of havoc he might wreak. That's why I'm here."

"Let's say that's true, then," Charlie says, after a pause. "Let's say I believe you. Why you, specifically?"

"I work in Fringe Division; it's my job." She shrugs.

He purses his lips, then nods. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Olivia, but, at least on this side, protocol is very clear about bringing back up to a manhunt."

"On mine too."

He gestures towards her, as if offering some invisible object lying in his upturned palm. "And yet here you are, alone."

"I'm sorry," Olivia says, "I'm not sure I heard the question."

"Why did you come alone, if your intention was to apprehend this…_ Jones_ and take him with you? I assume that is your goal, correct? To take him back to your side? Wouldn't it be better to bring more men? A task force? To tell you the truth, it all seems a little sloppy, a little too convenient."

"It's not that simple, Charlie." Her voice is tense. If he's startled by her use of his name, he pretends very well.

The cuff-like device around his ear beeps once, then twice. Olivia sees Charlie look at her, then back at the mirror. It beeps a third time. Charlie nods and stands. He leaves the room without preamble, without looking back.

* * *

"That went well," Lincoln remarks, now leaning against the wall, peeking curiously at the blonde behind the glass.

Too well, Peter thinks, standing as Charlie claps him on the back to say hi. "Better than I expected, yeah," he admits, "still, she's hiding something."

"Um, I believe the appropriate expression is: _well, duh_," Red teases, her voice a little forced, a little tight. She's distracted, made uncomfortable by the presence of this other version of herself, the threat of her. It's not every day you meet the person you could have been. Lincoln, not looking, smiles.

"You think she's lying?" Charlie asks to no one in particular, to all of them, perhaps.

They're all staring at her, this other. Peter wonders if she can tell, thinks of the word _xenophobia _and realizes it was meant for situations like this, where the fear is not of people who look different or hold strange beliefs, but of seeing your reflection stare back at you from across the room with thoughts behind its eyes that you can't recognize.

"Definitely, but not entirely," he says, "You know what they say about the best lies."

"Liv, thoughts?" Lincoln asks.

Red frowns. "I don't know, I…I don't know."

The silence stretches after that, four brains thinking circles around theories, trying to distinguish between truths and lies.

"So you think, what? This Jones guy's bogus?" Lincoln tries after some time.

Peter crosses his arms across his chest, curves his spine, shifts his hips forward till his weight rests on the balls of his feet. "Maybe, maybe not. Have Astrid make a list of all fringe events from six months ago, given a thirty day window. See if there's anything we might have missed, anything that might look suspicious."

"On it," Charlie says, nodding, glad to have some tangible task. Turning on his heel, he asks, "Liv, you coming?"

"Sure," she says, looking at the window one last time before pushing off the table in one fluid motion, and Peter will never understand the physics at work every time she moves. He's long given up on trying.

Lincoln straightens, starts pacing, a pensive look on his face. "It just seems too easy. Why would she come after him? I mean, the guy being in another universe, you'd think she'd be glad to be rid of him and leave it at that, right?"

"Unless it's personal," Peter says, staring at blonde Olivia hold on to the back of her neck like her head'll fall if she moves her hand away, "Either that or…"

"Or?" Lincoln prods, not really gentle at all.

"Or she's got a better bluff than all of us put together and we're seeing this exactly the way she wants."

"Well, if she's anything like Liv, I'd bet on that."

"Yeah." Peter sighs. The better question is, he thinks, how different can they be?

There's something urgent about her hands. He notices it after he stares a while, the only crack in the mask of calm she's worn since they sat her down, bound wrist to wrist, always watched. The motion is repetitive but discontinuous, the same circuit repeating at unpredictable times. Like it's unconscious, almost anxious. It starts at her nape, then follows the shape of her neck down into the collar of a jumpsuit two sizes too big, over the hollow between collarbone and trapezius, coming to rest at the base of her throat, above the sternum, where her fingers pause but a fraction of a second before she stops and drops her hands to her lap. Curious, that.

A thought strikes a wall, lights a spark.

What drives someone to end worlds? Is it anger, some misguided faith?

* * *

Later, in the evidence bag, among the nondescript clothes and the gun and the smooth leather wallet filled with cards he's studied one by one (oh so similar, but never the same), he finds a chain; white gold, elegant, slender. Almost delicate. At its end hangs a crucifix, simple, without ornament or pretense. Peter looks at it carefully, studies it. He traces the chain link by link, follows it down to the shape of the cross, glinting between his fingers under fluorescent light.

God forgot about his universe, left it to rot slowly without looking back, and Peter hasn't really spared a thought for the idea of him ever since. He believes in what he sees, what he can touch and taste and hear. The idea of a higher power is appealing to some, to those afraid of dying, those too afraid to live. It's curious: he can't imagine Liv being either.

Peter himself remains a skeptic, figures it's better to be godless than someone else's puppet.

What he holds in his hands is a gamble, a bartering chip. Put on those terms, Peter is courting addiction. This once, he won't resist.


	4. Q & A

**A/N:** I did say this would be long. Long to write, long to read, and long in getting updated. Sorry to all who've been desperately (or not) been waiting for an update. Better late than never, yes? Remember: the review button is your friend :D

* * *

Farnsworth anticipates Captain Bishop's request by a matter of seconds. When he reaches her workstation, his backpack slung over his shoulder, coat hanging over the tense strap and trapped by the wall of his back, at the end of his shift, Farnsworth knows what he is going to ask. She listens anyway, attentive. It is her job to perform if and when it is asked of her to do so, to the best of her ability. Farnsworth understands hierarchy. Moreover, she realizes that most agents find her disturbing, that the abilities she was born with make her different, as anomalous as the things they aim to prevent, only closer to home and with a face that looks a lot like their own. She understands that anomalies of her sort are only celebrated when they can be reconciled with the masses, when the distance between A and B is not so large that resemblance is lost and recognition falters. She understands that it is important to pace herself, to let her superiors direct her on their own terms. Sometimes, appearing somewhat normal is more important than a flawless performance, and normalcy has a loose definition at best. One that shifts by the minute, by the second, like an animal's moods.

"Hey, Astrid," he says, the hushed tone of his voice conspiratorial as he leans over her work station, perpendicular to her own position, mindful of her space but still standing closer than anyone else would dare.

"Captain," she acknowledges, shifting data into order for the archives and the yearly reviews. Farnsworth likes the captain. His interest in her is baffling. Not unwelcome. He is kind in a way that does not seem patronizing. The sight of her does not seem to offend him. Unlike most, he shows no discomfort at her avoidance of eye contact when he speaks to her (he shares this with Agent Dunham, who taught her to pin her beret in a way that would not give her a headache but would still keep it in place throughout the day; who asks routinely about her father's condition and makes sure to save her a place at her table on the diner across the street every Thursday, when their lunch hours coincide).

"Could you compile all the video we got from the interrogation room in the last 72 hours or so, and forward it to my cloud?" he asks. He asks, he does not command. It is somehow important to her, the way he sees her. She does not know why.

Farnsworth nods, her hands tapping away on the smooth surface of her screen, twisting, dragging. "Yes, Captain, of course."

He does not need to know that she made sure that said files made their way into his personal storage minutes ago. It might make him look at her different, and the possibility makes her sad.

He nods and he thanks her, and he moves to leave. From the corner of her eye she feels him freeze, turn back around. Unexpected. There is something in his hands that was not there before, his backpack unzipped.

"I almost forgot!" the Captain says, "I thought you might enjoy this." The thing in his hands is a book, thick and heavy, the pages dog-eared and yellowed, oily from over-handling. _Quantum Mechanics and Path Integrals, _by Richard P. Feynman, the cover reads. Her eyes widen, surprised that he remembered her saying she had been unable to procure a copy from the library, what must be a little over a month ago. With work in the way, her intention to retrieve her reserved copy had fallen by the wayside.

"It's been sitting in my locker for ages," he says with a shrug, "looked like it needed some air. A fresh set of eyes, maybe."

She looks at him and finds his mouth is grinning and his eyes are too, and the color is clear and blue. Astrid beams.

* * *

_CCTV 47 _

_08/17/10 - 9:53:14 AM_

_Suspect: Dunham, Olivia (b)_

_Interviewer: Agent Francis, Charlie_

_Interview no. 4_

_"I'm curious," Charlie says, folding himself into the chair across from her in black and white. "The last time we spoke you told me that David Robert Jones crossed over from your side around six months ago, is that right?"_

_"Yes." The blonde says, her answer clipped, her expression weary, her shoulders tense. Under the table, restless fingers fidget with the too-big jumpsuit, and the cold metal that outlines her wrists._

_"So tell me, if it's so important that you get to him, why wait until now, when the trail's already cold?"_

_Dunham nods — she expected the question. Her response, however, is hesitant, her reluctance apparent. When she speaks her words are guarded. "I told you, it's not that simple. Getting here…it's more complicated than you think."_

_This gives him pause. "How _did _you get here, anyways?" Charlie asks, leaning forward on his forearms. _

_He's met with silence, and it's enough of an answer for him to know he's asked _the_ question. All the others, however many, are inconsequential without this piece of information. The woman faces him, features impassive, expression locked down, but it's not Charlie she stares at. Wherever she is, in that moment, Peter imagines she's asking herself that same question. _

He still wonders if she got her answer.

"What are we missing?" Charlie asks, leaning back on the chair he's moved around to the edge of Peter's desk until the springs in the backrest creak dangerously under his weight, his fist tight against his eye. He's visibly upset, irritated, as frustrated with their situation as they all are.

Here is the holy grail of preventing the apocalypse, of someday putting more than Band-Aids on the gaping wounds of their dying reality, of restoring balance. Here is the book with all the answers, delivered right into their hands by entities unknown, perhaps sheer happenstance. Except nobody bothered to tell them that the answers would be questions, too, that all they would get from them would be the one thing they'd never want to hear: they can do nothing.

Peter'd thought he would have gotten used to that long ago.

He sighs, scratching at the edge of his jaw, where nascent stubble stubbornly refuses to stop itching. "I don't know. _I don't know, goddammit. _And how does a perfectly normal looking woman manage to cross into another universe, intact, and then doesn't know how she did it? She definitely had help. She would've needed something to open up some sort of portal, like, a gateway or a wormhole, something that would allow her to —to bridge both realities without the onset of molecular degradation. You get the idea," he says, gesturing in vain.

"Well, what kinda something? Like that machine we found?" Charlie asks, frowning.

"Yes, but bigger. Much, much bigger. That generator would only have enough power to _maybe_ keep the door from closing shut while she crossed, like a doorstop. The raw energy needed to create a portal stable enough that a person can come through unharmed…it's… theoretically, it's impossible."

"So much for theory, lately."

Peter hums his agreement, says, "You should go back in, see what else you can get out of her."

"She's not gonna answer anything else today," Charlie says, "to be honest, we were probably lucky she spoke at all. You should have been there when Liv went in a couple of days ago. It was so bad it was funny. Besides, whoever this chick is, I can guarantee you she's been trained for this sort of thing. And hell, she _is_ Liv, somewhere out there in another universe — God, I can't believe I'm saying that — and if I had to bet on anyone keeping their mouth shut in this kind of situation, it would be her."

"Yeah…hey, is there anything new on this Jones character?"

"Nothing," Charlie says, "The only match to her description that we found used to be a biochem professor in England. Cleanest record I've ever seen. "

"Used to be?" he asks.

"He died in a fire about ten years ago."

"So she made him up? To do what, buy herself time?"

"We've had Farnsworth checking traffic camera footage to see if we get a facial match for the last couple of weeks, and nothing's come out of it, so that's pretty much my theory," Charlie says.

"You should go back in, ask her again."

"Maybe you should talk to her yourself. Seeing a different face might jog her memory some."

Peter looks at the ceiling, lets the halogen lights burn in his retinas until the world around him is bleached out of color. The necklace feels heavy and cold where it's wrapped around his fingers, inside his pocket still; feels like cheating at the poker table, like closing his hand around a hand grenade and wondering where the pin went. His breathing is steady, but his heart pounds. He's always known obsession to be a dangerous plaything.

"Maybe I should, yeah," he says.

* * *

"Mister Secretary? Doctor Fayette is here to see you."

Walter Bishop swivels in his chair to face the woman speaking, the frown on his face giving depth to the lines of his brow and around his eyes, lending his expression a gravitas that has served him well throughout his politicking years. He caps his fountain pen (an expensive little bauble that he'd gotten from his ex-wife for anniversary three, when the things were still more or less in use and computer keyboards had not yet sent the factories the way of the dinosaurs and the sheep) and sets it down.

"Does he have an appointment I was not made aware of?" Walter asks.

The woman, his aging secretary, shakes her head. "No sir, but he chose to ignore me when I told him, _several times_, that you were unavailable. He's right outside."

Walter sighs. "Very well," he says, "send him in. And Abigail? Make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Yessir," she says, her mousy face scrunching up in an unpleasant way before she turns and scurries away.

His chief scientist enters not a minute later, his usually impeccable suit ruffled, his notepad sticking from one of the pockets of the lab coat he did not remove. His urgency troubles Walter; it usually means it is something either very good or disastrously bad, and, in both cases, thoroughly unexpected.

"You wanted to see me, Brandon?"

"Yes, Mister Secretary. We've had an unexpected development," Brandon says, his plump face red and still slightly out of breath. Walter, unamused, wonders if the man ran all the way from his lab.

"Is that so?"

"Sir, we may have had a breakthrough on preventing molecular degradation for inter-dimensional travel."

The Secretary of Defense leans back in his expensive chair, and he smiles.

* * *

The chair creaks as Lincoln drops himself at the edge of Peter's desk, onto the same chair Charlie vacated not that long ago. He's going to have to take a peek at the springs sometime soon, oil them up, maybe replace them.

"You have this look on your face," Lincoln says, gesturing toward the general place of his head.

"What look?"

"I have no idea, but it looks an awful lot like your dog just died," Lincoln says, "And since I know you don't have a dog on the premise that you'd kill any living thing that depended on you for survival: what's up?"

If only he knew where to start. Peter knows how to wait, he knows how to look. He's often the smartest guy in the room. Any room, at all times. And yet he can't explain what he does not understand. His hesitance is as surprising to him as it was to Charlie, as it is to Lincoln now.

"What's up is I am really, really thirsty. Are you about done here?"

"Yeah, I just need to go get my stuff, maybe shower. Where's Charlie anyway?" he asks, "I thought he'd be coming with us."

"Nah," Peter says, "he's got a date, apparently."

"Don't tell me, Bug Girl again?"

"Bug Girl again," he confirms.

Lincoln laughs, "will wonders never cease."

"Well, he gets around more than you do these days," he says.

Lincoln shrugs, shoots him a look that tells Peter everything he needs to know. Lincoln Lee has plenty of reasons not to put himself out there, however unwise, and they all boil down to _red, red, red. _

* * *

Brandon Fayette turns the screen in The Secretary's direction, the results of his tests on display, important bits highlighted in red for his quick perusal.

"You are sure of this?" The Secretary asks, skeptical.

"I've run the tests multiple times sir," Brandon says, "three, so far. All three were identical. All the living tissue we have attempted to send over, and subsequently bring back before has had signs of massive molecular degradation, but these cells are in perfect condition. There was no radiation accumulated, no decomposition, even their oxygen levels are relatively normal— what's more, they seem to regenerate at an accelerated pace once encouraged to divide."

"Fascinating. And all of these cells came from the woman?"

"Yes, sir. Blood and hair samples were taken in the hospital to ensure that they were optimal, as you requested."

The Secretary mulls this over for a moment, pacing across the room. After a while, he stops, turns, his hands firmly clasped behind his back.

"Well, Doctor Fayette," he says, "any hypotheses as to the reason this woman is not yet a puddle of subhuman slime?"

"Not yet, sir, but with your permission, I would like to find out."

"Permission granted. Initiate experiments when you see fit."

"Thank you, sir," the scientist says, barely contained excitement in his posture, his tone.

"And Brandon?" Walter asks, looking over his shoulder, standing at the threshold.

"Sir?"

"Keep her alive."

* * *

"That your brand of porn or something?" Red's voice, husky and amused, declaring her arrival.

Peter's eyes flicker up from the screen, see her sliding into the seat right across from him until he feels the toes of her boots knock against his, under the table. She's exchanged her leather jacket for a blue hoodie tonight; a faded blue, soft from washing, insignia indistinct across her chest and too big to not have been Frank's at some point in (judging from the lack of color and the frayed edges of the sleeves) the distant past. It's the only indication that she went home at all before coming here. "Hmm?"

"You keep staring at those security feeds like you're gonna uncover the mysteries of the universe if you look hard enough." She says, moving Lincoln's belongings to the side as she steals his place. "Spill."

"Is Frank away again?" he says, his tone dry. Peter pauses playback on his tablet, placing it so it rests flat on the lacquered surface of the table, screen black. She's got his attention. There's nothing on the video that he has not already seen half a dozen times (and it's frustrating).

"Huh? No, he came back last Saturday, what's that even got to do with anything?"

"You just said the words 'porn', 'hard', and 'spill', all within seconds of each other. Sounds to me like you need to get laid, and I was wondering." Peter's always been good at deflection.

"Wow." Her eyebrows raise beyond the edge of the fringe falling on her forehead, unimpressed. She knows exactly what he's up to, but then again it's not like he expected anything different. "Do you even think about anything else?"

"Nope. All non-sexual thought is prevented by the Y chromosome, didn't you know?" he retorts.

Red snorts.

"No kidding," she says, "I hate you. I hope you know that."

"You only tell me every day, honeybun."

"Ok, quit it, Bishop. What's with the feeds?"

Peter sighs. "I don't know," he says, "but she seems a lot like you."

"What?"

"The blonde wearing your face. She seems to be a lot like you. Acts like you, kind of talks like you, moves like you."

Red grimaces, leans back, doesn't like the comparison. "Yeah, if I had a pole up my ass, and had an inclination for genocide. Be serious."

"I _am _being serious," he says.

"Okay, you're mental."

"C'mon, don't tell me it isn't all you've been able to think about. I know you, Liv. You like to talk big and wave it off with a couple of jokes like it doesn't matter, but we both know that's not how you work."

"Well, yes, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind, alright?" she says, exasperation thick in her voice, "But I can tell you that I've never considered tearing holes in my neighboring universe. That's kind of a big difference where I'm concerned."

"No, ok," he says, "I _get_ that, no one's suggesting any differently, but listen: put yourself in her position. You think you're at war with this other universe that is completely unknown, and that, you assume, is hostile. And you've got this mission. Imagine everyone you've ever known depends on you accomplishing that mission: billions of people. And you gotta do it alone. So you get captured— the enemy's got you, and you recognize some of their faces, but there's always something off about the people, the places. Like a gut feeling telling you it isn't right. Now, what would you do?"

"I don't know, Peter. It might sound obvious to you and Lincoln, that I might be able to give you some insight on her or whatever, and I get that that's how you think —logical steps and all your science and shit, but that's not how it works, and it's not _your face_ on the terrorist. You don't have Broyles staring holes on your back, and you don't have Charlie and Lincoln playing the concerned sibling routine twenty-four-seven. I've got enough on my plate without you using me as control group for your sociology experiments."

Peter leans back on the booth, raises his hands in the universal surrender sign. Maybe he's pushed it too hard. "Yeah, you really do need to get laid. Should Frank and I have a talk or something?"

She swats him, hard, but there's laughter in her tone. "My sex life, for the hundredth time, is perfectly fine and none of your business. But thanks for the concern, jackass."

"Always at your service, Sugar."

As if on cue, Lincoln arrives with their drinks, sliding in beside Liv as he drinks the foam off his beer. "Whose sex life what? What did I miss?"

Liv rolls her eyes, and Peter grins.

Later, when the bartender has all but shooed them off their seats and out the door, well after last call, Red's hand finds its way to his forearm, the look on her perfectly sober face more serious than he's used to or is comfortable with, considering the amount of booze on its way to his head and the lateness of the hour.

"Peter?" she says, "I wouldn't talk. I'd shoot my way out. If I were in her place, I'd shoot my way out. I'd shoot myself next if that doesn't work, prevent them from getting any intel from me."

"She doesn't have a gun."

"_I'd_ get one."

With those words and a smile that isn't, she turns away.

Peter watches them leave, her hand under Lincoln's elbow to keep him from stumbling on the way to her car. Lincoln leans into her, subtlety gone at a rate proportional to the alcohol he poured in, and whispers something in her ear, making her laugh out loud. When he's far enough away that he can no longer tell if her shoulders shake from the laughter or the chill, Peter turns the other way and starts walking the four blocks it'll take him to get to his apartment.

Liv's words still echo when he gets home.

* * *

The buzz of the late night radio fills the car as Liv drives and Lincoln snores in the passenger seat, his neck bent and his windpipe at an awkward angle, his body diagonally splayed on the upholstery. She briefly considers finishing Lincoln's job and finding an actual working station, but she's afraid it might wake him up. His sleep is not alcohol induced, though she's certain the drinks have helped him relax, but rather born of the same exhaustion she feels burning at the back of her eyes, and that makes it all the more fragile.

They've had a hectic couple of months, between the people who think defying the laws of physics is a joke and the universe ending, and now a version of herself from an enemy universe materializing without so much as an alakazam or magic wand, along with a thousand new questions that have no answers. They've had to juggle all of those with their own personal lives, and they've been prepared for many things, impossible things, but everyone's got limits, and theirs have been sorely tested.

She wakes him up with a nudge on his shoulder when they come in sight of his building, trying to make sure she won't have to carry him up, a situation which hasn't happened before outside of work and that she'd be more than happy not to repeat because he's damn heavy to be so slim.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," she says, her voice singsong.

He blinks awake, mumbling something that might be _'I'm up, I'm up'_ before clearing his throat and sitting up straight in his seat.

"How long was I out?" Lincoln asks, rubbing sleep from his eyes and failing with a yawn, his hair sticking up more than usual, for a man that takes better care of his hair than she does. It's oddly endearing.

"About half an hour, give or take," she says.

"Huh. That felt much, much shorter."

"I'm sure there's some perfectly valid science to explain that."

"Yeah," he says, his smile sweet and contagious, and too sincere for this time of night, "probably. Can't think of anything right now. Peter would."

"And he wouldn't shut up about it, so thank God for small mercies."

The noise that comes out of Lincoln's throat is a cross between a snort and a laugh, and with ungracefully and for no discernible reason (she's not that funny), he dissolves into laughter. The look on his face leaves her no other choice than to join him, though she's sure the tired stretch of her muscles over bruised bone probably has something to do with the sudden hilarity of the situation.

"Are you happy?" he asks a little while later, out of the blue, when the laughter is gone and the car is silent but for his breathing and hers and the ever present buzz of the radio. She would think him to be talking in his sleep, but he's looking at her.

"Why wouldn't I be?" She says, and tries to smile but fails. Lincoln sees through the smiles every time.

"I don't know. You've been weird lately."

"We've all been weird lately, Linc. I doubt Charlie's ever been more uncomfortable, Peter's a mess for reasons only he knows, and you've been prickly. It happens." She doesn't even bother shrugging. Lincoln is someone who understands her ups and downs, someone she can always talk to. Someone she doesn't need to keep the truth from because it's his job to know it and, unlike her, to understand it. He's not like Peter, who will try to herd her in the direction he thinks is best, and who, when all else fails, will outsmart and out-stubborn her at every turn until she wants to rip him to pieces with a nail clipper, like the annoying older brother she never had and who she loves like one of her own for all his failings. Not like Charlie, who would believe her if she told him she wanted to quit Fringe and spend the rest of her days dancing on the moon in zero g, and would try his best to do whatever was needed to get her there. No, Lincoln is…complicated, and too tempting for his own good. She's never liked complicated before.

And then there's Frank.

"Not to you. I've never seen you weird -weirder, sorry," he amends, and she rolls her eyes but she smiles all the same. She bites her lip, not knowing what else to say.

"So are you? Happy, I mean," he asks, and it's really such a loaded question. She gives herself a minute, actually thinking about the answer before she replies.

Is she happy? She has her job, she has her friends, she has her mom. She has a man waiting for her at home (at least until the next viral outbreak) who tells her he loves her and is easy to love, who keeps her warm at night in the otherwise cold apartment, and knows that sometimes there will be more important things for her than coming home early, if at all.

"Yeah…yeah, I am," she says. It's not a lie, not quite. Truth is, she's not sure she knows the answer.

"Good," he says, and he leaves it at that.

As she drives home, the thought stays with her, his question heavy. They keep too many secrets.

* * *

There's something about this woman, something hard in her eyes. At first, he thinks hard as in brittle, hard as in fragile and sharp, like glass, and it's strange, because he knows her features, but they feel all wrong on her face. Like she's wearing a mask that doesn't fit her quite right.

Peter can't tell what she's thinking, and that might be the strangest thing of all. Liv wears her emotions on her sleeve; good or bad, she broadcasts them for everyone to see. Not so, the blonde sitting across from him on her cot. He clears his throat, sits forward on the metal chair to rest elbows on knees.

"You haven't met me before, but I'm hoping you'll agree to talk to me," he says, "I'm Agent Bishop."

She doesn't respond, but something like curiosity flickers in her expression, something mercurial, gone with the next blink of her eyes. Crowding her in her cell may not have been the smartest decision, but it's a risk he was willing to take.

"Look, I know this is not the best of situations for you, but believe me when I tell you that we want to help. If this David Jones really is the leader of a terrorist cell, he might have some useful information that could help us prevent the next attack," he goes on, "That is…something my side sorely needs."

The idea here is to make her believe that their goals are the same, that her mission is as important to him as it is to her so that she will reveal some of her intentions, her plans. Getting her to trust him might be too much to ask, but cooperation from her part would be a good start.

"Anything you can tell me about him, about his methods, about the things he's done to your side, it all helps. You have a familiarity with his M.O. that we lack, so," he opens the envelope in his hands, takes the pictures out and sets them on the edge of the cot, where she can reach them without changing the distance between them. She reminds him of the lions at the zoo. Dangerous creatures, sad and hopeless behind their bars, but always wild. "These are some of the unsolved fringe events of the last six months. It would be helpful, if you were to look at them, and tell me if there is anything about them that stands out to you."

He waits for her to react, to take the pictures, to throw them in his face if that'll make her move, but she only looks at him, scanning his face, making him wonder if she even heard what he said.

Peter sighs.

"You're wasting your time," she says, her voice low; its quality, unchanged by static and faulty recordings, is rounder, more measured than he expected. Peter sits back.

"How so?" he asks.

She takes the pictures, flipping through them with a small frown on her face. She sets them down, halfway through. "Jones wouldn't have anything to do with these."

"And you know this because…"

"Because these aren't your unsolved cases," she says, her eyes fixed on him, "You haven't believed a word I've said, and you think my side is hostile. Why would you let an invader from another universe so much as peek into your records?"

"That's a great question. Why would you _invade_ if your universe isn't hostile?"

"A one-woman retrieval team is hardly an invasion."

"_A one-woman retrieval team._ That's a nice name, has a nice ring to it," he says, his jaw set, "tell me, are you aware of the damage your "retrieval" almost caused? Your little stunt almost costs us an entire city block and its inhabitants. The pictures you have in your hands are only five percent of the cases we've taken on for the past six months, and every single one of them is riddled with victims, so forgive the establishment for jumping to conclusions when we find the direct responsible at the scene of the crime, for once." He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. He is unbalanced, and desperate to have stable ground under his feet, the last thing he wants is to show weakness-the real kind. It is not a feeling he's used to. Adaptability is his strongest suit, manipulation something he has always excelled at. He's always known which buttons to push, but it seems that in this instance all his instincts are wrong. He's flying blind, instruments backwards because familiarity is not something he can rely on with her.

"Sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have done that."

Her head moves a fraction and it's almost a nod, like his outburst is the most natural thing. Like desperate men with irrational tempers are normal parts of her day. "You're not used to being found out, are you?" she says.

He has to laugh, shaking his head. This job will drive him crazy, someday. "What gave me away?"

"You smile when you lie," she says.

* * *

_It's a family trait_, Olivia wants to say, but refrains. Her position is precarious enough as it is.

She wonders how Walter would react, if he saw him here, alive; the son he lost twenty-five years ago. The resemblance clicked the moment he identified himself and looked at her. They don't look alike, but Bishop has his father's eyes, his way of disrupting the air in the room with his presence alone, and Olivia hasn't believed in coincidences since flight 627 knocked at her door.

"That's good to know," he says, like she's given him a valuable piece of information, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "You should know that we know Jones isn't real."

She raises her eyebrows, "he isn't?" she says.

"David Robert Jones used to be a biochemistry professor at Oxford University. We ran facial recognition software through all the camera footage the Ministry of Transportation has gathered of the past six months, starting ten days before the date you gave and including the details you gave us about the bandages, and the scars. All of this regardless of the fact that our Mister Jones died in a fire around ten years ago, next December. And guess what we found?"

"Nothing," Olivia says, expecting as much. He'll lie low for as long as he can, for as long as he needs to. Her only advantage would have been her knowledge of his target, that she was sent to protect him, but she can't very well tell them that they need to find William Bell, and expose her only ally.

The device around his ear beeps thrice in a row, and he stands, taking the pictures back. He sighs.

"I didn't lie when I said my side could use some help. If you're really not the enemy, why not help?" he asks, his hand knocking on the door for the guard to let him out.

"I'm not your enemy" she tells him, "but now I can't be sure that you aren't mine."

He doesn't turn before he leaves. The door offers a soft click as it closes behind him. He'll be back, and she'll be ready for him. After all, she has wounded his pride.

* * *

It is a day for unexpected developments, it seems. Who knew the boy would have it in him to take matters into his own hands? This is what Walter thinks as the recording from _CCTV 19 _plays out in front of his eyes, his son and the woman arguing in monochrome on his personal screen. It is too early yet, to determine whether this interaction is good or bad for his plans. If it makes a difference at all.

"Mister Secretary?" his assistant interrupts via his office's comm, "Doctor Fayette asked me to let you know he is ready to initiate procedures as soon as tomorrow morning, and he would like authorization to move the subject to the observation wing in Liberty Island."

Walter stops playback, presses the green button on the comm, "Authorize the relocation, and let the good doctor know that he is to expect my visit. That will be all for today, Abigail."

"Yessir. Good evening, Mister Secretary," she says, and her voice is replaced by the static of an active comm.

"And to you as well, Abigail," he says, his mind back on the topic of his boy.

Walter Bishop has always been proud of his son. Despite their differences, Peter grew up to be a fine young man. But the boy is stubborn as a mule and devoid of ambition, too easily ruled by his heart instead of his mind. Too much like the mother who raised him, at times. That may prove problematic at some point.

* * *

_Should've known it would be in the water_, she thinks through the cotton-candy fog of her mind, the plastic cup that the guard slipped in through the whole on the door toppled over somewhere on the floor. Her limbs are still positioned the same as they were when she fell on the ground by the cot, limp; legs at an awkward angle, her wrist painfully bent against her chest. Her eyes burn and water but she can't blink the sensation away.

In her line of sight she sees boots coming closer, blurring together, the sounds distorted and the taste of bile on her tongue, sight and hearing impaired, sense of smell compromised and her body numb.

"Take her to my lab," one of the men says, wearing something white, vowel sounds round and far away, consonants harsh.

Olivia has heard his voice before.


	5. Desperate Measures (Part I)

A/N: Look, I actually updated in less than six months! Many, many thanks to my beta. Please do let me know what you thought :D

* * *

"Bishop, slow down." Phillip Broyles looks up from the monthly performance reports, his expression sour. "You're gonna give yourself a heart attack. More to the point, you're gonna give me a heart attack. What is so important that you barge into my office, unannounced, at -" he checks his wrist watch, "_seven fifteen_ in the morning?"

Peter breathes deeply, reminds himself that grabbing his superior officer by the shoulders and shaking him until he understands the gravity of the situation is probably a Very Bad Idea. He braces himself against the back of one of the leather chairs at the edge of the dark, synthetic desk. Like most of the non-metallic materials in the office, it has been airbrushed and polished to look something like redwood. He wonders briefly if it was nostalgia that guided the choices of interior decor; Peter hasn't seen a sequoia tree since he was twelve years old, and he doubts there's a chunk of their admittedly large annual budget predestined for the acquisition and renovation of million-dollar antiques that won't do anyone any good other than sit prettily in an office.

"Sir," he says. "The other Olivia Dunham is missing."

"Missing?" Broyles frowns. "What d'you mean missing?"

"I mean, sir, that she was not in her cell ten minutes ago when I went in to question her again," Peter says, placing his pad on the desk, complete with live video footage of the empty cell. "I mean that unless you have a reasonable explanation, I'm afraid we're either witnessing our first case of teleportation, or invisibility. I didn't think I'd need to stress the importance of this particular subject to you of all people, sir, but I've been known to be wrong in the past."

Unimpressed, Broyles stares back. "Are you done?" he asks, like he makes a living out of dealing with unruly children.

In reality, Peter thinks, they're all just psychiatric disasters waiting to happen, bundles of frayed nerves and adrenaline wrapped in paranoid awareness of the dangers that threaten them.

Peter sighs. "Yes, sir."

"Take a seat, Bishop," Broyles says, motioning to the chair Peter has been digging a fist into since he came in. His expression is one of distaste. Not towards him exactly, but rather the situation at hand.

Peter hesitates. "Sir?"

"Sit. Down." The man does hate repeating himself. When he complies Broyles leans forward, pulls up a video file for Peter to look at. The clip is short. It shows DoD security personnel escorting a gurney through the higher Division hallways, the ones crisscrossing the building all the way to the helipad up top. The woman on the gurney is the one he's been looking for.

"The prisoner isn't missing," Broyles explains, body language suggesting that his limited reservoir of patience is nearing its end. "She was transferred to the Research and Development wing under DoD late last night. You, of course, would have been informed of this along with the rest of your team, if you had waited for your debriefing later today and actually remembered to attend."

Peter ignores the jab, leans back. He forces his hands to relax against the fake leather of the armrests, his jaw set as he processes the news. Though he is certain of the answer, he finds himself needing to ask:

"Transferred on whose orders?"

* * *

They underestimate her body's tolerance for abuse.

Olivia regains her mobility slowly, painfully, sooner than they know. Pins and needles prick her insides; an acidic feeling burns its way from bone marrow to joints—shoulders and wrists and elbows and knees. It is an itch on her skin, and it hurts to breathe, the air too dry, her back sore from being still so long.

Above her, below and all around the world is white, indistinct because blinking would give away her accelerated recovery. Her eyes feel heavy, grainy and dry.

By the time they move her from what looks like a CT machine and start sticking needles into her, she's as fully mobile as she's going to get—it's difficult to check while they observe, but Olivia knows her body. She knows what it feels like to be trapped inside your skin, unable to move, barely capable of breathing. More importantly, she knows what a comedown feels like, much more than she'd like.

Her newfound mobility is not a good thing. There is a trick to lying still, like pretending to sleep. It is difficult. There is a particular relaxation in slumber, a slackness of the limbs that drug induced paralysis aims to replicate, where the body is unresponsive and supple. Consciousness, by virtue of opposites, means tension, means motion. She breathes as deeply as she is able, forces herself to relax.

The needles are cold in the crook of her arm, but then needles always are. She thinks she should be phobic of labs, of chemicals, of scientists in general by now. It is amazing how well conditioning works, when done early enough that all memory of manipulation fades from the subject's mind (from the child's mind).

Bodies lean over her, chattering away about procedures and tests as they move around the gurney she has been placed on, but not strapped to. She is not paying attention to the voices. It takes her a moment to realize that she has not been bound. They must not expect her to move at all until they're done. Lucky for her, Olivia has always been good at defying expectations.

Brandon Fayette—she recognizes him now— puts his gloved hands on her face, pushes at her eyelids to reveal the reddened, dry sclera beneath. She sees her opportunity when he reaches into the pockets of his lab coat, face close enough that she can smell the sugar on his breath, but his attention elsewhere. Without hesitation, Olivia pushes her body upright, her hands grabbing onto his tie and his coat, pulling him down, towards her. She crashes her forehead against the bridge of his nose, and hears the sickening crack as bone breaks and cartilage ruptures.

He pushes her aside. As he falls backwards, stunned, bloody nosed and out of balance, she reaches for the syringe on the tools cart beside her. She sticks it into one panicking lab assistant as she swings around, feels the needle puncture through cloth and muscle before she pushes off the gurney with unsteady knees.

The third man in the room, distracted from the commotion by the sight on the other end of a microscope, gets a metal tray to the head and a kick to the gut. He wheezes as he falls, tries to speak without air. Olivia pays him no mind. She turns and runs for the door.

It opens before she gets to it, revealing a surprised guard reaching for his gun, alerted by the commotion. Olivia slaps the gun away, punches a nearby scalpel through his forearm without thinking, letting her instincts decide. She pushes his head hard against the wall with her other hand, and she rushes out of the room.

She is almost at the end of the corridor when she feels the darts: two spots of bright orange pain blooming on the curve of her scapula, followed by a torrent of nausea. She has the presence of mind to reach out before she falls. Olivia leans against the wall, lets her body slide down until she reaches the ground. Feeling dims and disappears, but she remains wide awake. Angry tears pool in the corners of her eyes, but refuse to fall. She wishes they had the decency to knock her out, for once.

* * *

Talking his way past the personal assistant is not quite as easy as Peter expected. He guesses turning on the charm on the cute, military-type intern instead of the actual assistant might have had something to do with that, but how was he to know the difference?

The actual assistant—Abigail, the name tag reads—regards him, unimpressed, as she comes back to her seat from wherever she was. The tight expression on her face tells him that she's perfectly aware of his intentions. The intern, sheepish, hurriedly leaves the desk to stand at her post by the door. "The Secretary is only available by appointment, Agent Bishop," Abigail tells him, falsely bright. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Not exactly," Peter replies with a practiced smile, trying to extract his foot from his mouth with as much grace as he can muster. "But as I was telling Private Anders here, I can assure you it is important, and he will want to see me."

Abigail purses her lips, her expression bitter. "Agent Bishop, there is not a single meeting inside that office that doesn't deal with something important, but the rest of the people wanting to discuss their important matters with the Secretary of Defense still need to take a number. So please, take a number, and let me do my job."

That's a shutdown if he has ever heard one, and Peter straightens to his full height, rubs his hand against his forehead in exasperation. "Look, ma'am, I appreciate your dedication and I'm sure you always do this good of a job fending people off, but if you knew what I know, what the Secretary needs to know, you would've been opening that door and pushing me inside about an hour ago, so please, let_ me_ do my job."

Intimidation at least seems to be more effective than charm in this instance, as the woman pointedly looks away from his face and fidgets with her keyboard. "I understand that your matter is urgent, Agent, but there is a reason these protocols have been put in place and I cannot just ignore them. Don't make me call security on you, I'm sure neither of us would like that."

_Oh, come on,_ Peter thinks. He resists the urge to meet her threat with an eye roll. The last thing he needs is another disciplinary report recorded onto his file. At this rate they will demote him before the next election- not that he'd mind, but they don't pay him enough as it is.

_You're losing your touch, Bishop_, he berates himself. He relaxes his brow, lets the smile come back to his face. The extra stress of the last few days must be getting to him more than he had thought; on a scale of one to completely-fucked-up an uptight secretary doesn't even rank. He works in Fringe Division. He's dealt with fucked-up often enough to last him a couple of lifetimes.

"That's not going to be necessary, Abigail," Peter says. "Listen, all you need to do to get me to stop bothering you is give him a call right now, and let him know I'm waiting. It's as easy as that. I'll take a seat on that bench over there and I'll wait. That way, when the Secretary has some time to spare for national security details that he requested himself, and he admonishes you for not making me come in sooner, there won't be any chance of me being in the way. How about that?"

That does the trick, alright.

* * *

The access corridor gives way to high ceilings and clean-cut angles highlighted by the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back, a few paintings and a map of their many failings adorning the otherwise bare cement walls. It is tasteful, that much Peter is willing to admit.

Walter moves back behind his desk, having come out to usher him inside, much to the assistant's dismay. He sits, undoing the last button of his suit jacket for comfort's sake, and pours himself a drink. "Take a seat, Peter. Have a drink with me."

"Thanks, but no, thanks," Peter says, and remains standing. These stunted interactions are par for the course between father and son.

Walter relaxes into his chair, the springs bending smoothly under his weight. "Tell me, son, since I'm assuming you didn't come all this way to spend time with your old man, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that. Riddle me this: what on earth could you possibly gain from moving Olivia Dunham to your R&D facilities?"

"Answers, son," Walter says. "What else?" He looks affronted by the question.

"Funny. See, I was finally making progress in that particular department, but I was notified earlier today that all my team's efforts, all those extra hours they put in over the past month, are now moot, because you decided that bypassing your own Division would be a good idea. Would you please explain to me why that is?"

"You should know that there are things Fringe Division cannot do, simply because it is bound by the same laws that it attempts to uphold. I was trying to make things easier for all of us."

_Bullshit._ "You're the Secretary of Defense," Peter says, his tone scathing, bending at the waist to place his hands against the edge of Walter's desk. "There's never been a law you couldn't bend in the Division's favor. The President is so confident in your ability to deliver that this office is basically a government unto itself. How is removing a suspect from ongoing interrogation gonna make things easier for any of us?"

"Ah, but you're wrong. She cannot be considered, or treated, like any other suspect. There is no doubt that she is responsible-at least in part, for the event that led to her capture, and who knows how many more before that."

Peter can't shake the feeling that Walter is stalling, planning to outlast him like this is a temper tantrum and not a legitimate matter. "Technicalities, Walter. I don't need you to remind me of that, I was the one who caught her, remember? And you didn't answer my question."

Walter gives a long-suffering sigh, like Peter is being particularly slow. "I understand that you have been able to ignore the more unsavory parts of our jobs so far, son, but willful ignorance will not take you anywhere in this. There are things that we protect you Agents from, truths you wouldn't want to see or hear because they might impede your ability to do your jobs. Things that need to be done, nonetheless, if we are to have a chance at all. This is one of them. Respect that, and you'll be better off."

"A chance at what?" Peter asks, the implications of everything Walter is hinting at heavy on the back of his mind, a bitter taste on his tongue. "Just _what_ are you going to do to her that you're so afraid of me knowing, Walter? And stop dancing around the issue. For once in your life, just give me a straight answer."

His earcuff beeps twice, a call incoming. Peter ignores it, fixing his father with a stare that leaves no room for ambiguity, bristling when Walter doesn't even have the grace to look embarrassed.

His caller refuses to relent.

"You should get that," Walter comments with a tone that would suggest they've been speaking of the weather.

Reluctantly, he reaches for the cuff. It's Lincoln on the other end. "Dammit, Linc, not now. I'm in the middle of something."

"Uh, yeah, we just caught a case, man. I'm sending the details over to your cloud, but you should get here as soon as you can. It doesn't look pretty." He sounds about as tired as Peter feels, and it makes him wonder if there will ever come a day when waking for another day on this crumbling existential plane will stop feeling like torture.

Peter closes his eyes, rubs a hand down his face. "When does it ever? I'm on my way."

He ends the call. "This isn't over," he says to Walter before he makes his way out the door, and he means every word.

* * *

_Williamsburg, NY._

Charlie turns away when his eyes hit the body, visibly gagging as he tries to turn it over with his boot. "Ugh, I think I'd have preferred bugs."

It is a gruesome sight. The corpse, a middle-aged man with an unremarkable everything except he's thin as a reed, lies on a pool of white, semi-viscous liquid streaked with red that he seems to have vomited in the moments before his death. Greenish tentacle-like tendrils extrude from his orifices: mouth, and nostrils, and ears, even the spaces between his eyeballs and the wrinkled skin of his eyelids. They haven't counted the orifices covered by clothing, but Liv has the suspicion that they will find that the trend continues. The limbs are bent, unnaturally rigid given the time of death, wrists flexed and stiff, dirty fingers arranged into claws.

"That's just because you'd have an excuse to go see you girlfriend during work hours," Lincoln says, winking at her in complicity as he crouches to get samples, swabbing at the corpse's nose and mouth with quick, efficient motions that require little contact. Despite the humor, she knows he is as unsettled as Charlie looks. Liv has always been better at shutting out the things that upset her. Having a stronger stomach also helps, but the boys have never liked to be reminded of that. Something about deflated egos not being conducive to a case well solved or a restful night. They know it and she knows it, and, for the most part, it is enough.

Charlie makes a face. "Ha. Ha. Ha. You think you're so funny."

"Oh, but I am funny." Lincoln collects the swabs into a refrigerated container, pressing the lid shut with a click that's barely audible against the sounds of busy street life around the alley.

Liv grins, mischievous, pressing her knees against Charlie's back. "I'd have to agree with Lincoln, here. I mean, look at him, he even looks funny."

"Hey!" Lincoln protests, pouting like a five-year-old, lower lip sticking out and a furrowed brow over illegally pretty baby blue eyes. It makes her laugh out loud.

"You walked into that one," Peter cuts in as he swings his upper body down and under the red tape outlining the crime scene. He is shivering in the breeze, sleeves pulled down over his wrists, looking distracted.

"Nice of you to join us, Captain," she tells him as he reaches them, in a fairly accurate imitation of Broyles' commanding tone. He has his hands shoved into his pockets in an effort to get warm, seems to have forgotten his jacket in the car.

Peter rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Don't start." He gives a soft push against her knee as he crouches beside Charlie, taking the bite out of his words, grimacing at the corpse. "So, what have we got?"

"Name's Winston Clarke, forty-seven, divorced. No current address is given. He's been arrested for possession a couple of times in the last few years, but never served time," Charlie reads from his pad.

Lincoln, who has been intently staring at the samples, looks back at the corpse, perplexed. "Huh."

"What?" Peter and Liv ask at the same time.

Lincoln smirks a little, holding his open hands out in front of him in the universal signal of surrender. "The white liquid? According to the chemical analysis it's actually spinal fluid, mixed with a variety of enzymes that the human body doesn't normally produce-that's what's giving it the color and the gelatinous consistency."

Peter takes an extra cotton swab off the field kit, pokes at the little tendrils coming out the body's mouth, moving them to the side. It would look vaguely comical, if it weren't so incredibly disgusting. "My guess is we can probably blame that on Cthulhu here. It also looks like he crawled all the way out from the bar's backdoor, judging by the markings on the ground and the scraping on his elbows and arms. Did anyone see it happen?"

Liv shakes her head. "No, I've interviewed everyone who was still inside when we got the call, and the only person who remembers even seeing the guy was the bartender. He was also the one who found him lying here when he took the trash out. Apparently Mr. Clarke has been a regular for the past couple of months. Bartender said he remembered the guy because he'd never drink anything but water. The only other thing he could tell us was that he seemed sick when he came in."

"Hmm, water at a bar, I thought you were the only one who did that. Did he mention any particular symptoms?" Lincoln asks.

Liv snorts, shakes her head and starts to read from the pad Charlie has been holding for her. "Um, he said, and I quote, 'the guy looked feverish, all sweaty, glassy eyed and everything, like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a few days'."

"Sounds pretty standard. That could be anything from the flu to an epidemic in the making. Any cameras around?" Peter asks.

"Yeah, there's one right over there, above the backdoor," Charlie says, pointing at the surveillance equipment bolted to the brick wall a few feet away. "Security purposes. We've got the footage already," Peter claps Charlie on the shoulder with his left hand, stands up. "Ok, good," he says."Have the body taken to medical so they can cut Tentacle Monster out of him and tells us what it is. And get the ex-wife's address, she might be able to fill us in on what he was up to, or at least where to start."

Charlie nods and stands, already on his way to do just that. "Will do, boss."

Peter turns to Lincoln with a mock-glare, "See, you got everything handled. You didn't need me here at all." He says this jokingly, though she detects a subtle note of honest-to-god annoyance in his tone.

Lincoln shrugs. "Hey, we get to meet Tentacle Corpse Dude, you get to meet Tentacle Corpse Dude with us. Team spirit, they teach it in high school."

"Ah. That must be why I got the hell outta there as soon as I had the chance." Peter gestures with both hands like he is saying _Eureka, I found it_, whatever it is. Only then does Liv notice the fine silver chain he inadvertently took out of his pocket along with his hands. It's wrapped around his fingers, which curl in a loose fist around an object that she never thought she'd see again.

"Where did you get that?" she asks, feeling the blood drain from her face as she grabs his arm.

Peter looks like the proverbial deer in the headlights as he opens his hand to reveal a slim silver cross on his palm. "Uh, the other Olivia's evidence bag. Why?"

"My…my mother had one exactly like that. She loved that cross."

"What happened to it?" Lincoln asks after a pause, like he is not sure if he is allowed. She doesn't see him come closer until she has him right there, in front of her.

"You said your mother _had_ one," Peter explains at her questioning look. He and Lincoln do that too often, finishing each other's sentences, sharing the same thoughts.

Liv swallows before answering; seven years later and she still doesn't find it any easier to talk about. She knows they'd respect it if she chose not to say anything more. It might be why she doesn't stop, like ripping a bandaid off. "She, uh, she gave it to Rachel, my sister, when we found out she had VPE…It was diagnosed pretty late in her pregnancy, there was nothing to do but hope she'd be strong enough…or that the doctors could save her or the baby. Her…heart gave out in the middle of it. They tried to save the baby, but they were too slow. She was born dead. I never even knew what Rachel wanted to call her. We buried my mother's cross with her, figured it was what Rachel would've wanted."

* * *

Peter can see her through the reinforced glass on the wall, and the sight is painful to watch. The cell is small, smaller than the last one, not even wide enough for a cot. There is only a bench, the padded walls, and her. Olivia has shoved her body against the corner, knees pulled up to her chest, her spine curled inwards so far that only her lower back touches the wall behind. Her head rests on the edge of the bench, tilted to the side, her eyes closed. It probably feels as uncomfortable as it looks. She seems thinner than he remembers, though it has only been a week since he saw her last.

The guard stops him before opening the door. "Captain, sir, you're going to need to leave your weapon outside," he says, an apologetic look on his face.

"C'mon Joe, what do you think I'm gonna do in there?" Peter asks, taken aback.

"Orders from the top, sir," the guard shrugs. "She tried to escape a couple of days ago, messed up some of the science personnel pretty bad. Corporal Jameson got a scalpel through his forearm. It's nothing personal, sir," he explains.

_I'd get one_, he remembers Liv saying, breath steaming on a cold night. He can't get the gun off his holster and into the guard's hands fast enough, after that.

It's worse once he gets inside. Without that layer of concrete and glass to obscure the details of what's been done to her, the small part of Peter that remains undamaged by the horrors of everything he has seen despairs. She is as white as the walls, as white as the scrubs she has been dressed in. There is an ugly purple bruise on her right temple, midnight shadows under her eyes contrasted by the little blonde specks of her eyelashes. There are angry red ligature marks on the thin skin of her wrists, where she must have fought to free her hands from their bindings. Her hands and feet have not been unbound even though she has been put under lock, with a guard at her door day and night. He refuses to smile at that, though he finds that he wants to. She must have caused one hell of a ruckus to make them paranoid enough that it has come to that.

Consciously, Peter is aware that the reason he feels so uncomfortable about this is because he has made an emotional transfer to some degree. He is reacting to her the same way he would react to Liv if she were the one lying across from him, because her appearance is the only thing about her that is familiar and his subconscious has latched onto that. It makes him angry. Consciously, he prefers to think she deserves the sympathy on the simple fact that no human being should be treated like this.

Olivia opens her eyes as he sits on the floor with his back to the door, not even half a meter between the toes of his boots and her feet. It makes the bruises under her eyes look even worse, and he would be surprised to learn she has slept more than an hour in the past week. There is no feeling to the look she gives him, just a rapid-fire assessment that he senses happening behind her eyes, if only because pupil dilation indicates she is actually focused and present. He forces himself not to shift under the scrutiny, feeling like she is testing his mettle with one simple look. It's unsettling.

Strangely, he feels the need to explain himself. "I'm pretty sure I'm the last person you want to see, but, I thought…" he scratches his jaw, uncertain now. "Actually? I have no idea what I'm doing here. You were transferred out, officially. Every signature and every stamp is in the right place, and it's not going to change just because I don't like it. I probably don't even have the clearance to be sitting here right now."

For some reason, his fumbling explanation makes her smile. It's cynical, joyless. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Morbid curiosity," she says at last. Her voice is rough. He imagines it's due to the screaming, her throat raw.

Peter frowns. "Maybe," he concedes. "Not entirely."

"No?"

He shakes his head, lets it fall back against the surface of the door at his back. "I think I wanted to make sure that you were still alive."

"Would it really matter if I wasn't?" she asks.

"Matter? Objectively, no, probably not. My guess is they'd just cut you up to see what makes you tick, and no one would notice, and no one would care." He wants to give her an honest answer. "Personally though, I think…I think there are still too many questions that you haven't answered."

"And how do you know that I can?"

"I don't," he admits. "But finding out is half the fun."

Olivia raises her head from its spot on the bench, slowly mirroring his position even though it looks like every inch of movement hurts. "What makes you think I'd answer anyway? You'd probably use anything I give you to hurt my people."

Peter shrugs, neither denying nor confirming. He hasn't thought that far ahead yet. "It works in the movies."

This time the smile is real. She closes her eyes. "You have those over here?" she asks, deadpan.

"What else do you think we do for fun? Experiment on people?"

"Could've fooled me."

A stretch of silence follows, punctuated only by his breathing and hers, and the quiet hum of Liberty Island above and below them. It is the kind of quiet for questions, tense, begging to be broken. He doesn't know where to start. What can he ask her that he is not already convinced she won't answer? Maybe he is deluding himself. Maybe there is no point in being here at all. If his staring makes her uncomfortable she gives no sign.

Eventually, his earcuff rings, shattering the silence. Peter answers, rubbing at his eyes, expecting Lincoln even before he speaks. His partner informs him that Medical has finally gotten the parasite out, after a day of cutting and prodding at the poor junkie bastard it killed. He is expected to meet them in the situation room as soon as he can. Before he goes, he remembers his other reason for visiting.

"There was one other thing," he says as he stands, pulling the necklace from one of the pockets in his pants. He places it on the floor, in the little space that remains between them, neutral ground. "I thought you might want this back." He doesn't wait to see what she'll do with it. Somehow, it feels too personal to witness.

"Peter?" She calls when he's halfway out the door. He pauses to listen. "You didn't come here for answers. You came to make sure your conscience was clear."

He thinks if that is what he came for, he leaves with more doubt than he brought. He fails to notice that he never gave her a first name to go with his last.

* * *

The report from the medical department is exhaustive. It is also one of the strangest things Lincoln Lee has read to date. In his line of work, that's saying something. "The thing is a parasite, that much is clear," he tells his team, now gathered. "It seems to have been bioengineered from some type of Amazonian leech, or at least that's about as far as medical could genetically trace it. Of course, because it's bioengineered it doesn't really resemble a leech at all. The hypothesis is that while, yes, it was meant to feed off of the victim's spinal fluid, which is what killed Mr. Clarke by altering his brain's neutral buoyancy and making it collapse under its own weight-that's what spinal fluid does by the way, or, you know, one of the things: it makes the brain float-the parasite's consumption wouldn't have amounted to much for the first few months of incubation. That kind of slow feeding would cause only mild discomfort for the host, a headache at most, maybe some fatigue. The problem is that, from what medical could tell, this one specimen's growth was accelerated exponentially."

"Which would make it need to feed the same as if it was growing at its usual rate, only in a matter of days instead of weeks," Peter finishes for him, already seeing where he was going in the first place. He's been distracted lately, his thoughts far away, but Lincoln has to admit that he seems to be present for this, at least.

Lincoln nods. "Exactly. Clarke's brain didn't have a chance to replenish itself, so it collapsed. Now, the roots, the tentacles, whatever we wanna call 'em, act as a form of rudimentary nervous system for this thing, but because it was growing so fast it was desensitized, so instead of branching out inside the host the roots just kept going in whatever direction was unimpeded by organs, or managed to push organs out of the way. It grew so much quicker than it was prepared for, in fact, that that's what ended up killing it. Most of the cells expanded so fast they burst like water balloons. But here's the interesting bit: according to medical, it was meant to benefit the host instead of killing him."

"How'd they come up with _that_?" Charlie asks, mirroring Liv's frown and crossed arms, disbelief plain on their faces.

"Apparently, they were able to simulate the optimal host-parasite conditions from the organism's DNA data. In other words, beats me, don't ask. But, they found out that those enzymes that were mixed in with the spinal fluid are actually produced by this thing, and they seem to stimulate the production of neurons that generate dopamine in the brain."

Liv raises her eyebrows. "And this is helpful because…."

"Because our vic suffered from Parkinson's."

"That's brilliant," Peter says, and Lincoln can see that he's actually impressed.

"Why is that brilliant? I'm sorry, I just don't get it." Liv huffs, annoyed. The science-oriented part of their job has never really been her stuff. Lincoln thinks it's adorable, of course.

Peter is quick to explain. "One of the causes of motor dysfunction in people who suffer from Parkinson's is cell death in the brain, specifically- "

"Those that produce dopamine?" Liv interrupts, having caught on with Peter's explanation.

Lincoln grins. "Yup. Dopamine is a neurotransmitter - it's basically a catalyst for the electrical impulses that neurons send to each other, so less dopamine means slower signals, and slower signals mean less coordinated motion. "

"So, ok, let me get this straight," Charlie says. "You're saying that someone out there just fed this guy some specially-made live bait to cure his Parkinson's, but it didn't work because of a flaw design that made the worm grow faster than either it or the guy could handle?"

"Essentially, yeah," Lincoln tilts his head this way and that. "Except they actually implanted it along the spine. There was a fresh laser scar on the base of his neck, no more than a couple of days old. It's also cumbersome. I mean, he would've died eventually anyways, once the worm grew big enough to have a killer appetite. Whoever did this was just prolonging the inevitable."

"Unless this is just a step in between," Peter suggests. "What if whoever is doing this is just trying to make sure the cure works before he tries to kill the green, slimy messenger?"

Lincoln raises his eyebrows. "A field trial? Yeah, I suppose it could be. It actually makes a lot of sense."

"This job," Charlie says, incredulous. "I swear to God…"

"So, what now?" Liv asks, impatient as always, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet.

Lincoln interlaces his fingers together and pushes out with both hands, cracking his knuckles. "Now, I guess we figure out who it was that put that thing in Winston Clarke's neck. Charlie, you got the ex-wife's address?"

"Yeah, I've already got a route programmed in my car. I can pull it up if you like."

"Nah, we can all just go with you, it's a big car."

"No, Lincoln, you are not allowed to sit in the back of my car so you can smack me across the face when we hit a traffic jam," Charlie says, rolling his eyes, already starting to walk towards the elevator that will take them down to the parking lot under the building.

"Aww, but _mom_," Lincoln laughs, following Liv down the spaces between workstations along the situation room's edges into the elevator hallway, until he hears Peter calling him from behind. He turns, surprised to find that Peter hasn't moved from where he was, leaning against the edge of the desk.

"I think I'm gonna sit this one out," Peter says, his face grim. "And look, before you even say anything, I'll do the paperwork, alright? All of it."

Lincoln is tempted to raise a hand to Peter's forehead, check his temperature like his dad used to do whenever he caught the flu at school. "Dude, are you alright? I mean, sure, I can handle it but you've been acting strange lately. People are starting to notice." By people, of course, he means their superiors. And it isn't like Peter to bail on his team without injuries to blame or an explanation ready.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine. I just got somewhere I need to be."

"Somewhere more important than out in the field, with your team?"

Peter sighs, looking wearier than Lincoln remembers ever seeing him before, the muscles in his jaw jumping every couple of seconds, his shoulders hard lines of tension. "I can't really explain right now, but not because I don't want to. I need you to trust me on this, please."

"Alright," Lincoln says, taking a deep breath, backing off. "Just make sure that you tell me when you can. I'll let the others know, but FYI, I won't be held responsible for Liv's bitching."

"Wait. That's it?" Peter asks, surprised and, if Lincoln is right, relieved.

Lincoln shrugs, ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind telling him not to drop this without getting answers. "You asked me trust you, Captain. I am. I do. Just try not to do anything more stupid than we're used to."

* * *

"You have to stop this."

"You're going to need to be more specific, Peter. 'This' is a rather general concept."

"Experimenting on people, Walter. Violating every existing point in the Geneva Convention. Sticking needles in every nook and cranny you can find on Olivia Dunham. Is that specific enough for you, or do you need me to elaborate?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, son. I thought we'd already discussed this."

"We discussed nothing, Walter. We discussed nothing, because like always, whatever I say to you goes in one ear and comes out the other. You don't listen to anyone but yourself, you never have."

"I understand your anger, son, I can even accept it. I expect it, by now, but don't let it blind you in matters that affect billions more than you or me. Your judgement is based on what you've witnessed, but you don't realize that there might be more to the picture that the pieces you've seen; you make your decisions with haste, without thinking. That is why I don't listen. It does this office no good that you inherited my intellect but so stubbornly refuse to make use of it."

"This is not about me, Walter, and it is most certainly not about you. This is about the woman you're abusing three floors down. It's a person that you're poking full of holes, and the impression I got from the 'piece of the picture' I saw is that your chief scientist is forgetting that."

"You disappoint me. I would have thought you'd have realized by now that you can't afford to be soft, in your position. They would do worse to one of ours if they had the chance. The answers this woman can provide us with go beyond what she can verbally tell any of us. What we learn from studying her could ensure our survival in the long run, and I will not compromise that because of your misguided sense of righteousness. This discussion is done."

"No. No, it is not. I don't care what she's done or where she's from. I care that it's a human being you have in there with your pet butcher, and when he's done with her, there's not going to be anything left that can answer any questions, verbal or otherwise. This is Guantanamo Bay all over again, Walter, and you know how well that mess turned out with the UN, don't you?"

"What rules we've made for our squabbles with each other on this planet hardly apply when we're talking about the deliberate, ongoing destruction of our universe, don't you think?"

"Ok, let's forget about keeping our humanity, since you're so adamant about the fact that we don't need it. Let's assume for a moment that you get what you want out of her, whatever that happens to be. You seem to forget that if we want to be successful in this covert war, we would still need information about her side, information about protocols, about military power, about technology. Information that I'm telling you— and I have been telling you for the past forty-eight hours—she would be able to give us, but only if she is still alive and sane by the time Brandon is done with her, and you can't guarantee that."

"I don't need to guarantee anything. We already have the answers to all of the questions you might think of asking her. All the protocols, all the numbers, anything we might need. I could tell you what the weather is like, if you want."

"How?"

"It would be better if I showed you, I think."


End file.
